An Unforeseen Occurrence
by AerynFire
Summary: A waylaid train and a chance encounter sets in motion a series of events in the lives of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson...events which lead the life of one consulting detective on a path to the most unforseen occurance of them all. Complete.
1. Crossing Paths

**Authors' Note: Welcome back! Thank you once again to all who read and/or reviewed _The Forfeit Daughter_. Your kind and thoughtful words were a joy to read, and encouraged us to continue with our increasing storyline for Holmes and Watson. Indeed, I would at this time recommend strongly that all new readers go to _The Forfeit Daughter_ and read that first. This can be read by itself, but _TFA_ and this story are parts of a much larger tale...and its always best for clarity's sake to start at the beginning. :) Now just this once, we are breaking our rule about adding notes at the beginning rather than at the end of our chapters. Why? To give you, the reader a heads up on a couple of changes. :) We, as you will notice, have switched perspectives from the first person (Watson) to a more general third person stance. This was done, as it is a more character driven piece, and this perspective is more useful for exploring the characters' inner thoughts. However, that said, we will be returning to Watson witin this story, albeit briefly...for there _will_ be a mystery, and we need Holmes's Boswell to record it in only the way he can. :)**

**So sit back, enjoy...and on with the story. And as always, feel free to leave us a review. We love to hear from you! **

**

* * *

**

**An Unforeseen Occurrence**

_Chapter One: Crossing Paths_

_October 20th, 1888 _

"This is completely intolerable!" Holmes paced around the ornately decorated waiting room of the St. Albans train station, sitting down one moment only to rise to his feet and pace again. "We conclude another case, and have been travelling all day, to get within shouting distance of home and relaxation, and then this! I've half a mind to seek out a cab to drive us the rest of the way there...hang the expense," he exclaimed, tapping his cane on the ground irritably for effect. "How hard is it to ensure that tracks are kept cleared and in good working order for oncoming traffic?"

Watson sighed, and nodded, irritated and annoyed himself, but finding he was too exhausted over the last case, an interesting mystery of murder, betrayal, and a mythical hound, to voice much protest of his own. "I don't think either of us is up to driving all that ways, Holmes," he agreed tiredly. "Mary is going to be rather put out, especially since I sent her a telegram promising to take her to dine this evening."

Holmes pointed his cane at Watson. "Put not your faith in princes or railway switchmen, Watson," he told him. "Both will invariably leave you undone." He cast a quick glance around the room they were in. "The paint in this place is really quite hideous."

Watson quirked a bemused eyebrow at his friend. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied to the first part of Holmes's statement, before gazing around the apricot room to confirm the second, long used to his companion's constant random declarations. "Yes...well, I don't suppose people stay long enough to notice usually," he mused, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time, noting it was near tea time.

"Makes no odds, Watson...a waiting room should be made as pleasant as possible, considering people are doomed to linger in the damnable things." Holmes sat down again, his cane tapping rapidly on the tiled floor with increasing impatience.

"Holmes...since we are stuck here for the foreseeable future," Watson started, ignoring Holmes's remark while trying to ignore the annoying tap of wood on tile, keenly aware that his friend's mood, which was coming down from the elation of such an interesting case, could become increasingly black if his mind was not occupied with new stimulus, "why not go into town and get something to eat. I could use a stretching of my legs after being cooped up for the last few hours...and it's just about tea time."

He didn't look particularly enthusiastic, but Holmes stood again. "Very well...anything is better than being cooped up looking at these four walls for heaven knows how long," he acquiesced, immediately scooping up his leather bag, and striding out of the room.

His partner sighed, and shook his head in bewilderment, before following him out hastily. "Good, and if we could just stop by the post office...I need to send a telegram to Mary," he continued as soon as he had caught up with Holmes outside the station.

The taller man nodded sharply, hefting his leather carry-all. "Of course. I'm sure this place must have one somewhere." With another sigh, he set off again at a rapid pace.

The grey clouds on that late October afternoon covered the sky, but they were hung high and, for the moment at least, there seemed little chance of rain. Walking briskly down the pleasant main street of St. Albans, Watson spied what appeared to be the local inn, named The Bull and Finch, as well as the usual types of shops and stalls one would expect in a town the size of this one, before at last laying eyes on the familiar sign that announced the Post Office.

"I'll just be a minute," he assured Holmes as they reached the door, and opening it, he turned back around to run head first into a duo of short bodies dressed in matching dark suits with bright red heads.

One small, disgruntled boy looked up at him and sniffed as he blocked the way out. "Excuse me," he said in a tone that was almost accusatory.

The identical boy nodded, adding, "Pardon us."

Watson rubbed his stomach from where the run in had forced his bag to smack him in the abdomen. His eyes widening in surprise and recognition, he opened his mouth to reintroduce himself to the boy, but as he did so a familiar looking young woman dressed in a plain dress of rich black ran up and addressed the twin boys from the shadows of the gloomy, windowless post office, her attention firmly focused on her young charges. "Matthew! Andrew! What did I say about running?"

Catching sight of the young woman's face, Watson's smile only widened as her voice gave him final confirmation to the lady's identity; his own, it seemed, was still unknown to her as she remonstrated the boys, her grey eyes firm. In front of him, both boys flinched as one in the doorway, before turning around to her with conciliatory looks.

"But...you just ran, Helen," the one who had accosted Watson pointed out quietly.

"And you specifically told us...no running," the other agreed, giving her a reproachful look.

The young woman shook her head with a sigh. "Exactly...and now look what you've done. You've probably bruised this man at the very least with your dashing about."

Andrew opened his mouth to argue, but, catching her firm look, sighed with a "Yes, Helen."

Her gaze turned to his brother, who held out for a few more moments, before nodding in reluctant acquiescence.

Watson watched the familiar family dynamics unfold before him, as she motioned for the boys to turn around, thereby directing their attention to him once more. "Now, apologize," she instructed.

Andrew glanced at his brother, before turning and regarding the man in the doorway more fully, his brow furrowing at the sudden case of déjà vu he received from the man's face.

"Sorry, for running into you when you were standing in the doorway, sir," Matthew mumbled, his eyes firmly on his feet.

After being nudged in the ribs by his brother, Andrew nodded. "Yes, sir...sorry...but do we know you?" he apologized and asked all in one breath.

Helen groaned, and barely refrained from bringing her hand to her head in mortification. Taking a step further, she came further out of the shadows of the store to chastise her brothers once more, the light from the doorway illuminating her face.

Though he, himself, had seen her recently in his professional capacity as a doctor, it had been two months since the events in which Watson had come to know the young woman and her two young charges.

Their story, one that he'd been dictated to never reveal under the strictest penalties of the law which he had titled _The Forfeit Daughter_…a story that was currently locked up in his strong box back at Baker Street under lock and key, was indeed a most tragic one.

Her father, their actual client, had come to Holmes and himself one night in late August to help find out who had marked him and his estranged daughter for death and, indeed, stop their intended plans. Holmes had managed to accomplish the first task, however, was too late to prevent the second in its entirety. Arthur Thurlow and his wife Ellen now lay in Marylebone Cemetery with his entire estate passed on to his sons and daughter, who had not only inherited them, but was now trustee over their inheritance, as well as inheriting quite a sum on her own.

This was the woman who now stood before him clad in a simple black gown symbolizing her state of deep mourning, and the two twin boys, who were also dressed in dark suits that outwardly showed their grief.

"Miss Thurlow," he exclaimed. "How delightful to see you again."

Helen's forehead crinkled in surprise at the mention of her name, before she peered into the open doorway at the gentleman there back lit by the light outside, before she recognized her addresser.

"Dr. Watson?" she breathed, as her brothers moved out of the way, thankful the attention was off them at last. Watson took her hand in greeting, and smiled, as she continued, "It is good to see you as well. But may I ask...what brings you here?" Her eyes flicked to his bag. "Are you visiting someone in St. Albans?"

Watson sighed and shook his head. "Returning from a case, our train was delayed, and Holmes and I are on our way for some tea after I send a quick telegram," he explained, as Helen glanced to where Watson had briefly indicated to see Sherlock Holmes standing over by a shop window with an intent expression on his face.

Turning back to the man in front of her, she smiled. "Well then, if you are delayed, then I insist you accompany us home for a meal. There will be later trains, and our home, I would like to think, is more comfortable a waiting place then the St. Albans train station. Besides, it is, after all, the least I can do for the two men who saved my life."

Watson started to protest, but upon feeling his stomach churn in hunger, nodded. "I think that would be very kind of you," he accepted. "I just need to send a quick telegram before we go."

"Of course, I shall extend the invitation to Mr. Holmes while you do so," she agreed with a nod, and as soon as Watson had walked inside, she motioned for her brothers. "Go tell Mr. Reggie to have the carriage ready. We'll be leaving as soon as Dr. Watson returns."

The boys nodded in synch. "Yes, Helen!" they chorused, and took off for where the carriage and driver were waiting.

"And no running!" she called after them, shaking her head with a sigh, already knowing it was too late to stop them.

Turning back to where the formidable detective was still scanning the window across the street, she bit her lip nervously, before squaring her shoulders, and making her way over to him, still finding him a little intimidating, but refusing to show it.

Holmes scanned the articles in the window, testing his powers of observation regarding when and where the rather impressive array of pipes on display in the tobacconists had been created, as well as making note to stop by there on their way back from tea to pick up a pouch or two of their Cavendish Gold Flake, which for some reason was getting hard to find in London.

"Miss Thurlow..." he said quietly as the handsome young woman approached from behind him though never moving his head from scrutinising the tobacconist's stock. "Not someone I had expected to see. Good afternoon." Finally turning, he inclined his head politely at the daughter of his recently demised client.

Momentarily pausing at his seeming uncanny precognition of her arrival, before realising he had merely observed her in the window pane's reflection, Helen Thurlow came to a stop next to him in front of the window, and returned the nod with a smile, only the rather firm way she was holding her purse any sign of her underlying nervousness. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I had the great good fortune just now to run into Doctor Watson at the Post Office, and I understand you have been waylaid?"

He made a sour face. "Yes...British Railways excel the best of Highwaymen in that regard." His eyes washed over her, taking in the deep black of her mourning, causing his jaw to tighten at the reminder of his failure in her father's case. "You are looking well considering. How long has it been now since last we spoke, two months?"

"Yes," she answered with a small sad smile. "A lot has transpired in that time." She fell silent for a moment in retrospection, before collecting herself and meeting his gaze once more. "You too, look well, if a little tired, if you don't mind me saying. Dr. Watson said you were returning from a case. Successfully, I hope?"

"Indubitably, yes..." he confirmed with a quick nod, before breathing a long suffering sigh. "No doubt, you shall be reading Watson's sensational account of it soon enough."

She gave him a humour filled look. "I suppose I shall. However, until such time as it is published, I have invited you and Watson to have tea with my family and I at the house so that perhaps I might hear it from the Oracle's mouth?" she flattered im. "It seems a pity that you should have to pay for food, when I live close by...and it is the least I can do."

"The least you can do for what?" he inquired, arching an eyebrow, before nodding. "Ahh...you mean your father's case? No need. As I told you that sad day in Baker Street, Miss Thurlow, you owe me nothing for the outcome of that most unfortunate turn of events. The money you insisted on giving me in payment was donated in your name to the Greater Ormond Street Hospital for Children. However...your invitation is most generous, and I, like my colleague, would be most happy to accept," he agreed, his eyes sweeping over the main street once more. "I hadn't realised you had moved here, Miss Thurlow."

She gave him an affirming nod. "Yes... we have a nice home just outside the town. After the will was read, I consulted with my brothers and we decided the house in Belgravia was simply too full of memories to stay. We had all had happy times there, but my father's death outweighed them all, and we could not continue to live there without being constantly reminded of it. So, we let it out to a wealthy American couple and moved here to The Twin Birches, the house he left my mother and I. I had expected it to be a comfortable cottage…but my father had made good on his belated generosity in many respects, and the Birches turned out to be a manor home, furnished and completely modernised in every possible way." She shook her head slightly, still a little awed at her father's actions.

"It is rather large in my opinion, but our new position rather dictates that we should have not only room for ourselves, but room for large amounts of company." She frowned, remembering the mourning state the house was in. "Not that that will be occurring any time soon. But still, we brought our cook, housekeeper, and butler with us, from Belgravia, as they are like family...and, of course, my mother lives with us as well." She smiled a little, her eyes glancing over at him, before returning to the street. "I personally rather enjoy the garden, though the best of it is gone now with winter nearly upon us."

"It is a pleasant part of the world," he agreed. "I'm sure the gardens would be most becoming in the spring and summer...is your home far?"

She shook her head, as a large, well appointed landau with two jet black horses pulled up to the front of the post office, and the two boys hopped out. "Just a fifteen to twenty minute ride," she assured him, as one boy disappeared inside the post office to check on the doctor's progress, and the other joined his sister.

Holmes looked down at the boy, who looked back even as he addressed his sister. "The carriage is here, Helen," he stated the obvious, still staring at Holmes.

Helen quirked an eyebrow at him, and nodded. "So I see, Matthew," she replied, obviously amused. "Matthew, you remember Mr. Sherlock Holmes, don't you?" she introduced the man she was speaking to.

Matthew bobbed his head in a slow nod. "Yes, you saved our sister's life, didn't you?" he almost accused.

"Yes, Master Thurlow," Holmes replied, his manner solemn.

The young boy took this in, before adding, "But not our Papa's."

"Matthew!" Helen flinched, and placed a hand on her brother's shoulder immediately to stop him from saying anymore, bestowing a most apologetic look on the detective.

Holmes, if he was perturbed by the words, did not show it, and merely nodded slowly once more in confirmation. "That too is correct, Matthew," he agreed quietly.

With a sad sigh, the child turned his eyes to his sister, before returning them to the man who had saved her. "Well," he uttered with a frown, sounding and appearing like a diminutive grown up, "it was good of you to try…though I miss Papa…and Mama too, of course." Helen's hand squeezed his shoulder gently, as she saw her brother's bottom lip start to quiver, all still feeling the effects of their father being taken only two months previously. At the reassuring gesture, Matthew looked up at his older sister. "Is he to return to the house with us for tea, Helen?" he inquired.

"Yes, Matthew. _Mr. Holmes_," she reminded him of his manners, while replying with a smile, before glancing around with a frown, "will be returning with us for tea…and where is Andrew?"

"He's in the post office," he answered, returned his eyes to their guest. "Thank you for saving Helen, Mr. Holmes," he continued smoothly without any pause.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You're quite welcome, Matthew."

"I suppose it would be all right to have you back to tea," the boy pronounced, quickly turning and sprinting back to the carriage.

Holmes watched him for a moment, before turning back to Helen. "It appears official sanction has been received," he observed.

She gave him an apologetic smile. "So it would seem," she agreed. "Mr, Holmes, I'm dreadfully sorry about…" she began, only to be halted by Holmes's raised hand and the shake of his head.

"There is no need to apologise for a bald statement of facts…only true friends and children may be relied upon for such honesty," he said, though the slight crease of his brow now that the boy was gone was evidence that his failure to save Arthur Thurlow troubled him still. "I only wish that I could change those facts for your brothers' and, indeed, your sake."

Helen regarded at him closely, perplexed by how a man who was purported to have such a legendary rein on his emotions, could obviously still feel things so keenly. However, before she could dwell on it further, Holmes had straightened, and his face reformed itself into a mild smile.

"Your stewardship of them and the family estate goes well then?" he queried, starting to move towards the carriage after picking up his bag again.

"Yes," she replied, keeping pace with him easily. "Once I had the books properly audited…there was as you might imagine quite a bit. My father was a much wealthier man that even I imagined him to be, and a remarkably shrewd investor. Apart from the firm, its subsidiaries, and his liquid assets, he owned properties across the Americas, the West Indies, Africa, and India." She shook her head with a sigh. "All going well, my brothers will be exceedingly wealthy young men come their twenty-first birthday. Apart from my new positions as President of both my father's Charitable Foundation and Arts Benefaction Fund, it is my job to make sure their future is secure by working with the directors of Balfour & Thurlow to see that the firm and my brothers' inheritance is kept safe, as well as, to see that they learn the good values that will ensure they don't fritter either their wealth or their lives away, and learn instead the ideals of hard work, generosity of spirit, respect, and compassion."

"A most admirable set of lessons." Holmes nodded approvingly. "Although I'm sure that dealing with ins and outs of business life is less taxing then that the latter."

She paused and gave him a wry smile. "You are as perceptive as ever, Mr Holmes," she agreed with a soft chuckle, glancing over at the carriage. "I don't seem to remember ever being that lively as a seven year old...nor as cheeky."

"No...None of us ever do." His tone was wry, as he opened the carriage door for her. "I am pleased," he noted, as he glanced in at the velvet upholstered exceedingly comfortable interiors of the new carriage, "that you have become a lady of independent means. Your friends will no doubt be driving down to you. What with your societal position restored to you and your mother."

She gazed at him for a moment. "I have a few loyal friends from school who have always remained in contact with me. But yes, I have received several invitations that this time I will be able to accept...now I have the means that is. However...there are people who relish attending as many functions to which they are invited as they can, and people who pick and choose for whatever their reasons. I'm afraid I have never been one for a preponderance of large gatherings...so, even without the restraints placed on me due to being in mourning for my father, I most certainly will be picking and choosing. But thank you...you not only saved my life...you in essence gave me one back again. I shan't forget it." And with that, she climbed into the carriage and took her seat.

He stepped in after her, taking a seat opposite. "Really, Miss Thurlow," he said, placing his bag between his legs, his face hidden but an earnest edge to his voice that seemed to beg of her to end the subject, "there is no need for further thanks. Watson and I are glad only that you and your brothers are safe, together, and rebuilding new lives for yourselves."

Her keen grey eyes gazed at him speculatively, but after a moment she nodded, just as the door on the opposite side opened and in climbed the twin of the boy sitting next to Helen, followed closely by Dr. Watson.

After both had taken their seats, Watson beside Holmes and Andrew beside Matthew, Helen leaned out the carriage window, and instructed the driver to move out. Settling back into her seat, she turned to the older man with a genial smile. "Did you manage to send your telegram, Doctor?"

Watson smiled back, and nodded. "Yes...and hopefully just in time too. Thank you, Miss Thurlow."

Andrew and Matthew resumed staring at Holmes, who looked back from the window at them, returning their gaze unblinkingly as the carriage started for their home.

"Watson..." he said after a moment, "perhaps the boys might enjoy hearing you recount our adventures with the hound of the Baskervilles." He paused, flashing a tiny smile at the boys. "Your..._adventurous_...style should suit them admirably."

Helen blinked, and frowned in puzzlement. "Hound? Of the Baskervilles?" she inquired. "As in Baskerville Hall?"

"Just so, Miss Thurlow," Holmes replied still not breaking eye contact with her brothers. "Sir Charles Baskerville of Baskerville Hall in Dartmoor...or rather, the late Sir Charles Baskerville, at least by the time we came to be embroiled with the family's affairs."

She nodded slowly. "Yes, I had heard he had died...the new Baron is an American, is that not so?"

Holmes shook his head. "Not precisely, no...Sir Henry is an Englishman by birth, but has spent a great many years in North America, chiefly Canada and has become inured in their ways. He is not a bad sort at all…if somewhat unwell at the moment thanks to recent events. However, now that his succession to the title and estates of the Baskervilles has been assured, he should do quite well in bringing the fortunes of the place along thanks to his modern agrarian mind set...wouldn't you say, Watson?"

Watson nodded in agreement. "Quite so, quite so."

Helen raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but before she could inquire further, Andrew piped up. "So what happened?" he asked, breaking both his and his brother's unofficial staring contest with Holmes who sat back a smidge victoriously.

Watson smiled, and leaned forward towards the curious boys. "Well, it all started when a Dr. Mortimer left his walking stick when he came to call at Baker Street..."

The carriage ride passed quickly as Watson spun his tale, abbreviating it to leave out the longer parts as they only had a short trip, but by the time he was finished, both boys' eyes were as wide as saucers, and their attention was riveted on him.

Helen, however, was taking mental notes, and had a long list of questions to where she felt there was a significant leap in reasoning, while Holmes stared out the window the entire time, except for a few moments. Twice when he glanced at the raconteur, his somewhat pained expressions letting Watson know that he felt he was 'embellishing' the tale somewhat, and a few times when noting his hostess's facial expressions at certain points, seeing her mind working over several of his conclusions in her head.

As their transport neared its end and the tale came to a stop, Andrew shook his head silently, before glancing at his brother for his reaction.

"That was a corking tale!" Matthew breathed. "Wish our family had a hound like that...he could sleep in our bedroom." He turned earnestly to his sister. "Can we have a hound, Helen?"

His sister's eyebrows rose quickly. "A _hound_? Whatever for? You have three cats, a hamster, and a turtle."

Matthew leaned forward. "Yes, but we don't have a hound. A hound could help protect us! No one would ever attack our family again with a hound like that," he argued, nudging his brother for his support.

Andrew nodded adamantly. "Oh yes! No one is scared of old Mr. Peepers! Or little Mr. Beans! But a hound! Oh please, Helen?"

"_Please?_" Matthew added for choral effect.

Helen's face wavered for a second under the barrage, her inexperience at handling the boys still telling. "Hounds are a lot of responsibility..." she started, trying to ignore twin sets of pleading brown eyes.

"We're responsible!" Matthew exclaimed. "We look after three cats, a hamster, and a turtle!" he reminded her.

"The housekeeper looks after your three cats...and I end up feeding the hamster and turtle," she reminded him in turn.

"But cats are different...they mostly look after themselves. We would _have_ to look after a hound," Matthew pointed out, as the carriage slowed, its wheels grinding through the gravel, to a halt. "At least until he can look after us...we would have to train him to be fierce and rip horrid people's throats out like Hugo Baskerville's."

"A most compelling argument," Holmes said wryly from the corner of the carriage, a small smile playing about his lips at the boy's words.

Helen's arms, however, folded over her chest on that particular point. "There will be no ripping of people's throats," she stated firmly. "I do not care how horrid they are. And as for getting a hound...I will consider it, when I see your next progress reports from your tutors."

Andrew groaned, and turned his head to look out the window and upon seeing they were home, opened the door and hopped out, just as the sun made a rare appearance through the grey clouds above. Holmes opened the other door, and stepped outside onto the gravel that lined the long, curved, tree lined driveway leading up to the white Tudor manor home, turning to look around at the fine grounds of The Twin Birches, so named for the pair of large birches that stood in splendid isolation in the heart of the beautifully manicured front lawn.

To the right hand side lay wide rose gardens, that were meticulously landscaped but which gave the impression nonetheless of being a wild, magical kind of place as they rambled off down on little hidden pathways filled with shrubs, discreet water features, and sculpted bushes towards a private wood, which from the occasional glint from the sun, seemed to indicate a pond or small lake within its environs. To the left of the house, there was more lawn, with the singular extravagance of a grass tennis court, beyond which lay a much larger expanse of parkland.

Helen appeared in the doorway, and smiled at the detective as he took in the grounds the house was set in. "Welcome to the Twin Birches, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," she announced, seeing Watson appear from where he had disembarked on the other side as he moved around to join his friend, as well as catching Matthew's profile as he dashed after his brother into the house.

Turning back to her, Holmes held out his hand to help her out. "It is just as you said...they are particularly fine gardens, Miss Thurlow," he said of the beautifully landscaped topiary and statuary filled precincts.

Sliding her gloved hand into his, she descended to the ground, and with a smile of thanks, released it. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I find them very peaceful, and a good place to catch up on my reading when the weather is fine." She turned to regard them both. "Now, you both must be tired and hungry. Please, come inside," she entreated, before leading the way into the house, and after taking one last look at the gardens, the detective followed her and his partner inside.

They were greeted at the door by the butler, whom Helen handed her hat and coat to, and who both Holmes and Watson recognised from 12 Belgrave Square and the service of Arthur Thurlow

"Good afternoon, Miss," Goodwin greeted her, glancing at the men who followed her in, and bowed his head to each in turn. "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, how do you do, gentlemen. Welcome to Twin Birches."

"Thank you, Goodwin," Holmes replied with a light smile. "I hope you're enjoying your new surroundings?"

"Thank you, yes, sir," the butler agreed, taking both the tall man's coat and Watson's. "It is somewhat quieter than London, it must be said." Pausing, his eyes turned downward, as he was circled once by Matthew and Andrew Thurlow in the act of chasing each other around the hall before darting into the sitting room. As the servant raised his head once, Holmes noted that he still retained that same stoic expression both he and Watson recalled of Goodwin's time looking after the boys at Belgravia, before the man finished with a tight smile and a barely repressed sigh, "But still lively enough."

Watson bit back a chuckle at the dark haired butler's long suffering, as Goodwin hung up their coats and turned his attention back to his young mistress, who had re-emerged from the sitting room where she had followed to admonish her twin brothers. "Will you be requiring afternoon tea for yourself and your guests, Miss Thurlow?"

"Yes, thank you Goodwin," she replied, pausing as she caught sight of the look on one of her guest's faces.

Holmes's eyes perused the interiors of the renovated manor home, which now that both visitors had had a moment to observe, were clearly in a state of deepest mourning. The reflective surfaces in the wide wood-lined foyer, and no doubt the rest of the house, had been covered in black, all brightly coloured objects or paintings removed or covered, and the clocks had been stopped at the hour of death as per tradition, and not at the hour the papers and government would have had the world believe Arthur Thurlow had departed this world in a carriage accident…but rather the true hour of his murder.

Helen glanced at Goodwin quickly, before inquiring, "Would you be so kind to bring it to the garden? It is still quite warm outside, and the sun has just made an appearance." She turned to see if this met with the approval of her guests, her eyes falling most particularly on Holmes.

He nodded slightly, the light crease in his forehead having returned and a certain tightness to his smile that told of his ongoing guilt, his answer reflecting a relief to be away from such obvious reminders of a house in grief. "That would be pleasant, thank you."

Watson nodded in agreement. "Sounds lovely."

She gave another nod to the butler, and once the men had divested themselves of the rest of their outerwear and bags, led them through the foyer and into the exceedingly large, tastefully decorated dining room also lined in oak. At the end of the room lay a pair of glass doors through which they followed her to the stone balcony-like porch that ran the length of the house and that looked over the large back garden, which was full of hedges, trees, and flower beds and centred by a beautiful marble fountain, clearly based on the one that lay in the heart of the Piazza Navone in Rome with its anthropomorphic depictions of the four great rivers of the world.

"I can see why London would hold little attraction for you at this time of year," Holmes observed, his piercing gaze taking in the surroundings. "Your father's taste was, despite everything, quite fine."

A tiny smile formed on her lips in agreement. "I still go into the city at least once a week to check on the books at Father's business and how the new general manager is getting along, as well as meeting with the directors of the Foundations to look over requests…and I had a few orders I needed to finish." Her smile grew a little sheepish as she revealed she had not yet stopped her seamstress work. "I still have a client or two that I've agreed to keep designing for. It was hard work when times were difficult, but I enjoy sewing all the same, and found that I did not wish to give it up just yet. But all the same, yes, most of my time is spent here."

Watson followed her to a table set near the stairs, pulling her chair out for her to sit down, and after pushing her back in, sat down on one side of her. "And how is your mother?" he inquired, noting her absence.

It had not been long after the funeral of Helen's father, when Watson had received a short letter from the young woman asking if it would not be inconvenient to make an appointment with him for the next day. He had telegrammed back immediately that it was completely all right, and indeed, that he would be delighted to see her once more. Would eleven o'clock for an early luncheon at a tearoom he knew by Kensington Gardens do?

The next morning at precisely eleven in the morning, Helen Thurlow was seated across from him in the comfortable and cosy surroundings, and proceeded to explain that her mother was in fact much recovered from her long melancholy, but at times, continued to worry her. The matron's mind would often drift away in the middle of a conversation, or she would take walks and forget where she was meaning to go. Twice, she had found herself in the garden with no recollection of how she got there. Yet, except from these instances, she had flourished after their whirlwind move to the Twin Birches. Her conversation moved well beyond simple quotations of nursery rhymes and poetry, and she was now once again an active participant in her own life, much to the joy of her daughter and adopted grandsons.

She had finished her update with a request that she be allowed to come by in a week's time with her mother for a consultation, and, all going well, make him their consultant family physician in London. "She trusts you," she had explained. "We both do, and I can think of no one better to oversee the health needs of our family." Pleased, he had gladly accepted her offer.

And indeed, the subsequent appointment had gone extremely well, albeit this time in a consulting room in King's College Teaching Hospital that he had borrowed from an old friend. Alice Thurlow had arrived with her daughter at the same punctual hour, and had been a most charming and astute patient, stating her own needs and problems as she saw them, and listened carefully when he'd proscribed her a trial plan of action and some medicines that he hoped would be able to ease any other minor problems she was currently having.

Her daughter had been true to her word, and not only made him her mother's physician but the family one as well. He had seen the elder Thurlow twice since then before being called away on a variety of cases with Holmes, once with her daughter accompanying her and once, surprisingly, on her own, which she had explained was a test to herself to see if she could accomplish such a feat…one they had both agreed was a victory to herself and her recovery.

Back in the present, and smiling a little more brightly, Helen replied, "Much better, Doctor. I think the country air has done wonders for her melancholy. I cannot begin to tell you how she and I appreciate all you have done for her."

Holmes turned and looked at his friend and partner. "I did not realise you were Mrs. Thurlow's physician, Watson."

His colleague appeared a little embarrassed, as he pulled out his cigarette case. "Yes...Miss Thurlow contacted me a couple days after the funeral. After several years without medical care, and her mother improving so rapidly, she called on me on behalf of her mother to make sure all was proceeding well…that there was no danger in a relapse," he explained, before turning back to Helen. "Her condition is continuing to improve...that is marvellous news indeed."

Holmes sat down at the table to listen, as Helen nodded. "I am sure she would have been glad to see you, Doctor, but she is visiting an old friend in Cardiff this week." Sitting back in her chair, she noted Watson's look of pleased surprise before turning to gaze at her guests. "She wanted to test herself once more, Doctor. And indeed, has taken several trips to London since the last one she made to see you, and has managed for the most part extremely well. This made her take heart enough to accept one of her old school friend's invitation to stay a fortnight. However, I am sure you have many tales of your own to tell. So Dartmoor? You seem to have been most busy indeed since we parted."

"Oh yes," Watson enthused, his mind returning to the case that had kept him busy the better part of a month. "But before the affair with the Hound, we had been embroiled in a singular case of the Greek Interpreter, and then the mysterious treasure from India and the Sign of the Four."

"Yes," Holmes agreed with a quick nod of his head, glancing over at Helen. "India has been to the forefront of events of late."

She gave him a wry smile. "Seeing as it is a volatile part of the Empire...as well as being full or mystery and promise, I suppose it is only to be expected," she replied. "But treasure? And a sign of four?"

"Actually, it's the Sikh symbol for the number four...and...well, let me start at the beginning..." Watson explained, just as Goodwin and a maid appeared with a tray of sandwiches and cakes as well as a tray containing a pot of tea and five china cups.

"Saved by the tea bell," Holmes observed of the interruption.

As if on cue, the twins arrived, skidding to a halt in mid run at their sister's look and walking the rest of the way, before taking their seats at the table. Watson gave Holmes a huffy if good natured glare at his remark, as Helen reached over and began pouring the tea, while Goodwin and the maid retreated soundlessly.

"Doctor, please continue," she entreated, as the boys helped themselves to large platefuls of cake and sandwiches. Watson smiled, and with a gleam in his eyes began to tell the tale of Miss Mary Morstan, the Sholtos, and Jonathan Small and his little aboriginal helper.

Holmes alternated between watching the seemingly endless and rapacious appetites of the small boys both for food and Watson's storytelling, and maintaining a mildly resigned look at Watson's style in recounting the tale of vengeance, honour, and greed.

"I fear..." he added at the end of this particular retelling, gazing at his friend over his tea cup, "that Watson's storytelling, as exciting as he always makes it seem, might be even more excessively emotional and overwrought then usual in this case, thanks to his own unique emotional involvement with one of the main protagonists."

Helen's eyebrow rose slowly, as she turned to Watson.

The doctor flushed a little at his friend's comments, but smiled happily at their hostess. "Yes...well, Miss Mary Morstan has, since the events I just outlined to you, done me the singular honour of agreeing to be my wife."

Helen could not help but be overjoyed for the older man. "Congratulations, Doctor!" she enthused, as the boys eyes met their counterpart's and grimaced. "A joyous announcement indeed."

"I venture to say your audience isn't as impressed with that as they were with the Hound, Watson," the detective commented, glancing at his friend and then the boys, while smiling into his tea.

Andrew shook his head with a show of disgust on the subject of romance that only a young boy could. "The story was excellent...but marriage and all that mushy lovey stuff...ugh!"

"Yes..." Holmes sympathised, as he finished his tea, and placed his cup and saucer down on the table, "I quite agree."

Helen's head turned to the tall man. "You are not a subscriber to the romantic side of life?" she inquired, taking a sip of her tea.

Andrew quickly finished his tea, and catching his brother's eye, rose from the table. "Helen may we be excused? We're off to the tree house." He turned his gaze to the doctor. "Would you like to see where _we_ have our adventures?" he asked.

Watson eyes rose up with surprise, but nevertheless, found himself agreeing, though mostly due to the fact he did not want to get caught in what he was sure would be quite the debate on the nature of love and marriage from his confirmed bachelor friend. The boys grinned, and a moment later, led him down the steps and all three had disappeared into the garden.

Helen's brow furrowed, as she watched them depart. "I do hope they behave themselves."

"Oh, I'm sure we can trust Watson not to lead them astray," Holmes deadpanned.

She chuckled, and turned to face him more, her grey eyes evaluating him subtly. "Now, what was I saying? Oh yes...so you do not agree with romance or marriage, Mr. Holmes?"

"In answer to your question, Miss Thurlow, romance is for some a necessary part of life, for the continuance of it..." he began, nodding his head in affirmation to her silent query of another cup, "and pleasurable in part for those involved I'm sure. However, I have never found it to be so for me. Love and marriage are, by and by, distractions that the more rational cerebral man does not really need in his life."

She sipped her tea, and considered his words a moment before replying. "So, you do not think the two things could co-exist? That one can live with just pure logic alone?" She shook her head, her tone respectful but disagreeing. "I cannot agree with you there. I think love is strength. It allows for a person to do remarkable things...yes, it can be distracting...if you let it. But in the end, I firmly believe that the power and intensity of such feelings can be channelled to do remarkable things as well."

He smiled a little, her answer almost precisely what he'd expected. "With all due respect, Miss Thurlow, as a member of the gentler sex, you would be inclined to believe so. Love has many forms...most of which, as you say, can be quite remarkable, but romantic love is, for the most part, inclined only to make a man's head woolly and preoccupied...and I cannot afford such divertissement in my line of work."

Helen quirked an eyebrow at his almost condescending tone. "You feel because I am a woman, that I am inclined to such opinions? On which evidence to you come by this? Do you not think a person's opinions are more founded on their experiences than by their gender? And...may I ask...how would you know this? Have you been in such an experience to have it occur? Watson is in love, and yet he has successfully helped you on at least two cases while in this state. Even now, he seems happy to me...not distracted."

"Watson..." he corrected, calmly dealing with her barrage of questions, "amiable and intelligent fellow that he is, is always distracted, Miss Thurlow. His kind heart and gentle ways make it impossible for him not to be. He is the softer side of our partnership, and adds much to our dealings with our clients. But it is I who provide the focus, not he." He paused for a moment. "As a human being, you are inclined to your own singular opinions of course, but you are also as a woman inclined to inform that opinion via your nature, which is by and by, gentle and nurturing and aimed towards the softer emotions. Women are, for the most part, built that way. It is not for nothing that romance as a genre was built around and aimed towards women, Miss Thurlow."

Reaching for his cigarette case in his pocket, he sat back, and regarded her as he drew it out and opened it. "Do not misinterpret me, Miss Thurlow," he said sincerely. "I am not denigrating the concept of romance as a whole or those that desire it. I am merely saying, it is not for me or those that wish to emulate the work I do…" He held up the cigarette case. "May I smoke?"

"Of course," she replied immediately, having listened carefully to his arguments, her head cocking to one side slowly. "So, you feel that to be a master in the art of detection, you must in essence...give up or distance yourself from all such emotions? Would it not be better to find a balance? Forgive my bluntness, but like my late father I have a habit of speaking my mind, and your stance is rather intriguing. A balance is what is usually advocated in most philosophical frames of thought. To deny something completely is found to be just as much a mistake as indulging too much."

"I concede your point, Miss Thurlow," he agreed, lighting his Woodbine and drawing on it. "Moderation, as the great Greek philosophers all maintained, is everything, but the fact remains that even were I so inclined towards romance the way that Watson so clearly is...I have never met anyone who stirs that inclination to the point where I would wish to pursue it." Crossing his legs, he leaned back and blew a gentle trail of smoke into the air.

Her expression became politely intrigued. "Never?" she queried with a tiny smile. "I suppose I can not fault or debate you on that, seeing as I am in the same situation as you in that respect." She reached over and poured herself another cup of tea, raising the pot toward his cup in inquiry, "More, Mr. Holmes?"

"No thank you," he replied with a slight shake of his head, watching as she replaced the teapot to the table. "There has never been one in your life that you would have wished to court you?" he inquired.

She shook her head, a light smirk on her face. "No...even if I had had the means in the past, I am afraid I am a little choosy in my criteria. That is not to say I am opposed to the idea of falling in love...I am just not a woman who likes to rush into anything. What if the brief initial attraction was to fade, and I found myself bonded to a man I had absolutely nothing in common with?" She added some milk to hers cup, before stirring it, and sitting back once more. "I suppose I have a fear of being locked in a marriage with someone with the intelligence of a walnut," she added.

Holmes chuckled a little at her words. "I greatly appreciate your hesitancy, but is that not what the courtship period is for? To ascertain suitability in the long term?" He took another long inhale of his cigarette. "Or have I been rudely misinformed?"

She flashed him a quick smile. "Oh yes, if done correctly. Though a great deal too many people these days seem to rush into matrimony…waiting only a couple of months after meeting. Some because the intensity of their emotions leads them to such an action...others because there has been no one better that has presented themselves, and loneliness holds sway. I suppose, they fear the other will find someone new, and wish to cement the deal as soon as possible." She gazed at him evenly. "It is of no matter with me...no one has asked, I am too busy to feel lonely, and even then, I do believe my constant questioning would put the most lovelorn man off soon enough."

"Miss Thurlow…" he countered, flicked his cigarette ash over the stone railing, "feminine chatter apart, any man put off by the all too rare occurrence of a woman's _intelligent_ questioning, is a man insecure in his own skin, and therefore not suitable for any woman, least of all a capable one like yourself."

"Thank you," she replied with a gentle smile and slight incline of her head. "For the compliment as well...even if it was somewhat left handed towards my gender as a whole." She sighed softly in amusement, as she took a sip of her tea. "Though I do have a feeling we will end up agreeing to disagree over the subject of love and its unattractiveness." Her tone was wry, though the glint in her eyes showed that she was not the slightest bit disappointed in that, her enjoyment of the debate alone obvious. "I must come up with some more detailed arguments for the next time we meet...whenever that should be."

He inhaled, and swept his gaze around the gardens. "Oh I'm sure it shall be soon enough, Miss Thurlow. I don't doubt that now Watson knows your precise location, his position as a consultant for your mother, and your excellent tea time repast, he will prevail upon us to stop at St. Albans to visit you on our way to and from certain events and even cases, every time we leave London," he concluded, his eyes watching a small fountain's water play.

"You are both, of course, very welcome to stop by any time you are need of tea or mildly interesting conversation," she returned, finding she was quite pleased with their conversation, for in truth her mind hungered for an intriguing conversation or two.

He took another deep draw of his Woodbine, before glancing at her, a trifle surprised to find himself relatively comfortable in her company, and more relaxed than he had been since being forced to disembark early from his train. "Then undoubtedly, we shall discuss this and a few other points arising over time. Though now...perhaps we should endeavour to rescue my colleague from the undoubtedly fiendishly clever machinations of your young charges," he suggested, rising to his feet.

With a quiet laugh, she placed her cup down on the table and joined him. "Of course," she agreed, noticing the air had started to chill, and pulling her shawl a little more tightly around herself. "I'm sure they've since made him walk the plank at least twice by now."

Extending her hand to the stairs with a friendly smile, she led him down into the garden, as the dipping sun turned the sky a glorious shade of rose and iris hues around them.


	2. A Regrettable Remark

**An Unforeseen Occurrence**

_Chapter Two: A Regrettable Remark_

_November 12th, 1888 _

Walking quickly outwards from the eminent but crowded establishment of Barnaby & Murchand, chemists to the top medical consultants of Harley Street, Watson paused, and, juggling with the packages he had just emerged with, tried to open his black leather Kruse medical bag with one hand. On succeeding, he set off again briskly, attempting the task of slotting the well wrapped glass vials that were his latest consignment of medical supplies into a secure spot in his rather jumbled bag while moving ever more speedily along the path.

It was always of great convenience to him that Barnaby & Murchand were so expediently located on the corner of Harley Street and Marylebone Road, such a short distance from Baker Street. However, the convenience was never more so keenly felt by him than today, as he was to meet his fiancée that evening for dinner and needed to return to Baker Street as soon as possible to complete the myriad small jobs he had yet to do, before sallying forth once again to meet Mary.

Rummaging about with his case, as he walked smartly, head bowed as he worked, he did his best to avoid the on coming afternoon foot traffic, dodging here and there with surprising alacrity down the long expanse of Marylebone Road.

His luck was in, and he avoided all collisions, until finally, when trying to move out of the way of an oncoming lady whose black skirts he could see from beneath the bowed brim of his hat, he found the task to be impossible as, coming to a halt, he moved to the left only to find her do the same and on moving to the right, so did she.

Finally in mild exasperation and no little embarrassment at the miniature dance, he raised his head. "I do beg your pardon, I am most..." he began, only to trail off on recognizing the woman who blocked his path. "Why, Miss Thurlow!" he exclaimed, blinking in surprise.

Like a feminine reflection of himself, Helen Thurlow looked up from trying to juggle several packages in her arms to stare back at him with an expression of complete surprise, rather shocked at accidentally running into the man who was now her family's consultant physician in London for the second time in a matter of weeks.

"Dr. Watson?" she returned, her lips sliding into a pleased smile. "I'm so very sorry..." she continued, as the boxes again moved in her arms, forcing her to attempt another quick manoeuvre to keep them all from crashing to the ground.

Shifting his still open case to under his arm, he endeavoured to try and forestall any further precarious lurches of her packages by placing a hand on the rather large collection.

"What an extraordinary coincidence!" he exclaimed as he did so. "The chances of us running into each other again like this, and both in such unsteady circumstances...well..." He smiled, shaking his head in wonderment. "I'm sure Holmes could tell me the exact odds, but I'll settle for 'quite astronomical.' Tell me, what brings you to this part of town?"

She sighed in relief, as he gallantly removed a couple of her well wrapped boxes from the top, lightening her load considerably and allowing her to better balance the remaining ones. "Well, my brothers are growing like weeds, and neither their clothes nor their shoes are fitting properly. And as I had to pop into town today to drop off some dresses for a couple of my remaining clients and meet with the lawyers of the trust, I thought I could at least get them some."

She paused, and gave him a rueful smile at the number of her purchases. "And, of course, I found one or two items for myself, and then was foolish enough to enter the bookstore," she continued, glancing behind her at the small shop front a little down the way. "And naturally found some novels I couldn't resist. I fear I may have overdone it..." She sighed, looking rather bewildered at her own behaviour. "I'm usually rather practical, you know…but the having of money and the knowledge that you can afford to make purchases is, I find, still rather novel and somewhat insidiously seductive. One finds one's hand slipping into one's purse with increasing regularity."

He smiled at her rueful expression, knowing full well from increased meetings with her and her mother in his medical capacity that her new found wealth was something she was still coming to terms with. "As much as I wish I could empathise upon the latter, I can most certainly identify with your overloaded predicament!" He shifted the bulky packages he had taken from her. "In practicality's name, I vigorously suggest we hail you a passing cab to use for your convenience during the rest of your shopping trip," he advised, putting down her parcels for a moment so that he could close his medical bag properly, before picking them up again. "In general, such a move will save either you or your parcels an inevitable trip to the ground." He gestured with one full hand, adding, "These paths are infernally uneven."

She chuckled, and nodded. "I was about to before our impromptu dance," she agreed with a twinkle in her eyes. "But how are you, Doctor? Are your wedding plans progressing well? I was dreadfully remiss in not enquiring at our last impromptu appointment."

"Everything is progressing well," he replied with a smile of his own. "Or so I am informed. My fiancée is in complete charge of all decisions regarding our impending marital state…mine is merely to nod approvingly and plot some way to provide some little finance for the future she is planning for us. I am fortunate that Dr. Farquhar, in whose offices you and your mother are meeting with me, is giving me the opportunity to assess the potential of the practice before purchasing it, allowing me a little head start in that way." He chuckled. "I am to dine with Mary this evening at eight, and, no doubt, I will be given a full and resounding briefing on all the latest news. Thus far, I have been spared much...but Christmas looms upon us, and I am sure as we enter the New Year, my errand toll shall start to rise exponentially."

Her smile widened, for despite his words his enthusiasm and quiet excitement were obvious. "I am sure it will all go very smoothly," she consoled. "And how is Mr. Holmes? I suppose you both have been most busy with the many problems of London's citizens."

"One or two small matters...but nothing of note," Watson confirmed with a sigh. "When I left he was scratching that violin of his, and trying to drum up the enthusiasm to go back to writing a monograph on the many criminal usages of some new South American drug or other."

Her expression appeared distinctly impressed. "He plays the violin, writes papers, and does detective work? My...he _is_ rather busy. I am most surprised he finds the time to fit that all in. Indeed, I find that with my brothers and all my other new responsibilities, I barely have time to eat!" she replied in astonishment, before sighing and shaking her head in annoyance. "Which reminds me...I have yet again lost track of all time. Do you know a cafe or tearoom nearby? I forgot to have lunch, and should most certainly eat before I catch the train home."

"Indeed you should," the doctor agreed with a serious countenance. "But not at any tearoom or cafe. You shall accompany me back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson would only be too glad to provide us all with a spot of late lunch." He saw her begin her polite objections, and shook his head to put them off. "I will hear no other answer but yes, Miss Thurlow. We are without clients at the moment, and you will not be disturbing anything, as Holmes's fiddling when he should be writing is a sure sign of a man in need of distraction from boredom...besides..." he finished, "what kind of gentleman would I be to send you off to eat alone?"

She frowned a little, looking distinctly unsure, and reminding herself about propriety. It simply wasn't done to accompany a man to his home without an escort, not that she wasn't one to bend the rules given sufficient motivation...and she was hungry and Dr. Watson was a family friend...and Baker Street was as much their place of business as their residence.

Finally, she simply nodded, and replied with a smile, "Very well then, Doctor, and thank you. Baker Street, it is. However, I insist you let me pay for the cab, as you are going out of your way to provide me with lunch."

"Nonsense, it's Mrs. Hudson who will be doing that. I'm just sweeping you along back to Baker Street, where I'm heading in any event," he demurred. "But I shall not argue the toss with you further." With an incline of his head, he raised his hand as a hansom cab approached them from the left.

"Nor indeed should you, Doctor," she returned with a smile at him, as the cab drew closer. "For I have a great deal more that I owe you for, beyond the mere provision of lunch and that service you have rendered my family as a medical practitioner."

Watson gazed at her with a slightly quizzical expression. "Oh?" he replied, before the light dawned. "Ah…Mr.Fairfield," he concluded with a slight smile. "The letter of introduction I provided you with the week before last at my surgery was useful?"

"Beyond words, Doctor," she assured him in grateful relief as the cab stopped beside them, and he moved to help her into it. "Beyond words."

The journey was short, and made shorter still by their conversation regarding their recent encounters and the upshot of her dealings with Nicholas Fairfield, an old friend of Watson's. The conversation was truncated as within moments they arrived at 221b Baker Street.

On disembarking the cab, gathering their belongings and entering the hallway, Watson turned to take off her coat after removing his own, and a moment later Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen.

"Good afternoon, Doctor! Back from your errands?" she asked, smiling up at the more genial of her two lodgers, before her eyes caught Helen as she arranged her packages by the door. "Ah...a new client?"

"Not precisely, Mrs. Hudson…an old one, so to speak," he replied as he hung up the two coats. "Do you not recall, Miss Helen Thurlow?" he asked her. .

Helen smiled at the older woman, as she removed her hat pin and hat, and the landlady nodded, her own smile widening on recognition. "Of course!" she enthused with a nod, and moved forward to greet the mourning bedecked young woman. "You are looking very well, my dear. Though I was so sorry to hear about your father. I only learned from Mr. Holmes of the nature of your loss after you briefly called here the day of your father's funeral."

"Thank you," the auburn haired woman replied graciously with a solemn nod of her head.

"So...will you be in for a while yet, Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson asked, turning back to Watson, before grimacing as the violin once again started up, its hurried and angry tones drifting down the stairs. "He's been playing that way all morning...wouldn't touch his lunch, just 'Be gone, Mrs. Hudson!'" She sighed in a succinct imitation. "I do so loathe it when he's bored...becomes quite insufferable, he does!"

Watson gave her a sympathetic look, and glanced up the stairs nervously. "I'll be in until departing for dinner tonight, Mrs. Hudson," he answered her question, before posing one of his own. "He's still as bad, eh?" he asked quietly, his eyes taking in Miss Thurlow as they swept down. "I hope I haven't brought you in a maelstrom of Holmes's moods...he has a tendency to be a trifle...irritable sometimes," he told her, trying to put a brave face on it.

She quirked one slender eyebrow at him, and glanced up the stairs. "I am sure I will fare just fine, Doctor. Unless you think it best that I should go? I can find a tearoom and head to King's Cross," she assured him, not wanting to aggravate a tenuous situation.

"No...no...not at all!" he soothed, moving towards her, his words reassuring himself as much as her. "In fact, you may be just the job to deal with this." With an incline of his head, he indicated for her to go on ahead of him. "Think of it as earning your lunch, Miss Thurlow." Glancing down over the banisters as they climbed, he caught the landlady's eye. "Speaking of which, might I impose upon you, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Of course, Doctor!" she enthused. "I'll go put something together for you straight away. Tea as well?" she asked, heading back into her section of the house.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" he called down, expressing both his gratitude and agreement to her suggestion, as he moved on up to the landing and from there to the door of the sitting room ahead of Helen. Opening the door, he entered to find Holmes seated in his chair, and his violin sitting in its case on his desk.

"Holmes…" Watson immediately took in the expectant look on his friend's face, coming to the conclusion that Holmes had himself already deducted that he was not alone. "You'll never guess who I..."

"Miss Thurlow," Holmes interrupted him, as he rose from his chair to stand, naming her well in advance of her appearance at the door. "Yes, Watson, thank you."

On entering, Helen glanced around the room, smiling a little at the fact she found that nothing had changed one iota in three months, before crossing over to the detective and holding out her hand. "Mr. Holmes," she greeted, her tone its usual soft yet melodic timbre. "I apologise if I am interrupting you. I bumped into Dr. Watson a short while ago, and he insisted I come to tea. I hope that is all right?"

"If Watson insisted, you could hardly be blamed for intrusion, Miss Thurlow," he returned, taking her hand and bowing over it, his eyes gazing up at her as he did. "A pleasure to see you again."

She smiled, nodding and turning her gaze to his violin. "I hear you have been practicing today, and indeed heard you downstairs. Mozart was it?"

"You are too kind in your estimation." He inclined his head again, as he let go her hand. "It was merely a concoction of my own. A stream of consciousness style of play I developed to suit my mood and help me concentrate. No doubt, it may have played upon some insentient air of Mozart's in my mind as it went along. Alas, his genius ear for creation eludes me. My own airs are unstructured and meandering in the extreme."

She gazed up at him, her expression distinctly impressed. "Perhaps...but being able to make music simply on the spot shows a goodly degree of talent," she insisted, before crossing over to sit on the couch, and casting a glance at Watson, added, "The doctor tells me that you are in a brief lull at the moment. It must be nice to take a break after so busy an autumn."

He waved an arm at the couch, indicating for her to sit as Watson closed the door and moved to another chair. "Nice is not a term I would use to describe it," he said quietly, his vexed air more than a little evident in his voice, as he waited for her to be seated before doing so himself once more.

"You do not enjoy having time for yourself?" she inquired with a small smile, seeing clear evidence of the contrary being presented in front of her. "Or perhaps the opportunity to channel the time and energy into another pursuit?"

"I enjoy doing the things I enjoy when I wish to do them, not when I am forced to because what I really wish to do is unavailable to me," he replied somewhat contrarily, making Watson shift uneasily in his chair, as he hoped his friend would not allow his frustration at the lack of interesting work and the inevitable accompanying irritability to shine through in front of their guest.

"I require little relaxation, despite what others try to tell me." Holmes's eyes drifted towards Watson meaningfully before moving back to their visitor. "Music and some physical activities like fencing, boxing, riding afford me such relaxation, but my mind quickly grows weary of inactivity and lack of stimulus."

Helen inclined her head a little as she considered that. "You like to keep busy," she summarized, her expression remaining mildly impressed. "Where in London do you indulge your more physical pastimes? Or perhaps you could write a teaching guide to demonstrate your inestimable methods for future consulting detectives…and for posterity?" she suggested, engaging him just as Watson had hoped, the doctor having to dip his head to hide a small smile at the flattery she employed.

Holmes, however, was not easily dissuaded from his dissatisfaction at his ennui. "I box and fence at a club here in town, Miss Thurlow," he replied quickly, "and I have written several monographs on the techniques you speak of. However, one is pure physical activity, the other a mere outpouring of knowledge, neither a stimulus of the mind." He glanced towards the work bench laden with the tools of a chemist. "My experiments afford me some such stimulus, but there are lulls even there...periods where one must wait for results...which tax my underutilised brain greatly."

He glanced at Watson again, and on seeing the trepidation in his friend's face regarding his own manner, he exhaled slowly, attempting to ease his words while endeavouring to relax. "I fear I am not the best of housemates at such times," he admitted. "I become...irritable. I am sure Watson is only too keen to begin married life within his own lodgings if only for that reason alone."

"Nonsense, old chap," Watson responded with a small smile. "In general, you are as fine a housemate as a man could hope for. Life is certainly not dull around you." He shook his head and chuckled softly adding, "All though...I must confess, I do look forward to looking up from reading _The Times_ over breakfast and seeing an entirely more attractive face than yours looking back at me."

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, taking an exaggeratedly stricken pose. "You wound me to the quick...and here I thought my features to be quite striking." He arched an eyebrow in jest at his friend. "Or do you say such things only to romanticise me in your writings?"

Watson's laughter bubbled forth again. "You may be assured of it, Holmes," he responded in jocular fashion. "It is merely done to intrigue the ladies and keep the circulation of readers high."

Helen watched the repartee avidly, as she struggled to keep the smile that was insistently tugging on her lips from showing.

Holmes sighed, and looked at her with a small smile. "It is a poor thing when a man may not even look to his best friend to assuage his vanity…though I long ago reconciled myself to my lack of kinship with Adonis."

She quirked an eyebrow at that, thinking he was not nearly as homely as he was trying to present himself to be...in fact, she found him rather striking and...handsome. "I had thought such matters were unimportant to you," she teased. "After all, as you stated to me previously, you are not looking for a romantic companion, where indeed such an assessment would be necessary, and one does not simply choose one's friends based on looks or employ one on his looks, so why should it matter?"

He gazed at her in amusement, before leaning forward, as his eyes wandered over her face with startling intensity and directness, causing Watson to blink at his companion's behaviour. It was hardly a done thing to stare at a lady so.

Her reaction, however, was merely to watch him, unblinking and unwavering, though she did look decidedly amused at his behaviour.

"A little Ponds powder...number five, I would say. The most delicate brush of rouge upon the cheeks, not enough to paint, just enough to lift...and a pale pink lip balm of a generic brand, but most becoming," he decided, sitting back after examining her make up. "You came to town on business...one does not run a business or shop on ones looks...why should it matter?" he returned, folding his arms lightly over his chest as he stretched his legs out. "All of us have a little vanity in ourselves, Miss Thurlow."

Her smile widened, though her cheeks flushed just a little and her eyes dipped. "I never said I did not, Mr. Holmes. However, one does not know whom one will meet in a day. It is best to be prepared for all contingencies."

"Precisely, Miss Thurlow," he replied, inclining his head in absolute agreement. "It is indeed. Especially, when one believes as you do, that the assessment of looks in the obtaining of a romantic companion is important." His eyes remained steadily on her, though an eyebrow rose as he commented on her earlier words, causing her to flush more deeply, as she realised that she had indeed intimated something very much like that, and how frivolous it made her sound. She was about to clarify her point, when he continued on having made his point about her and now seemingly wishing to make another.

"There are those born with a confident disposition...but most of us must learn to grow confident in ourselves. Some have an easier time of it than others thanks to nature's bounty...others must find their place in the world before they can begin to do so. Then, they may blossom, but still seek approval from society around us." He paused for a moment, as he folded his hands. "Vanity is a reflection of a need for confidence in oneself. We, most of us, judge ourselves by how others see us…men and women both."

She nodded slowly, finding truth in that. "And how do you see yourself, Mr. Holmes?" she inquired after a moment.

"A man of logic and science, an ordered active mind in an ordered active body, with a sufficiently confident and positive view of myself and my powers to know when I am right and others are wrong and to say so," he replied instantaneously.

Watson sniffed and crossed his legs, his tone somewhat wry, "Which you do, Holmes...often."

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as she ran through his description in her mind. "And yet…no reference to the physical, apart from an ordered and active body. You are confident due to your mental processes...your science and logic. You carry faith and pride in that. Everything in its place," she mused, her eyes glancing around the room, a tiny smile on her lips at the piles of papers, notes, maps, and other clutter. "Mostly."

Watson blinked at her final comment, a little embarrassed on his own behalf at that mess, but also a little surprised that, as their guest in their residence, she had voiced what could be construed as a criticism of it. Holmes, for his part, took in the direction of her gaze, and after a moment looked away from both it and her.

"There is logic even in apparent chaos, should one know how to look for it, Miss Thurlow," he murmured quietly, as he stood to retrieve his pipe, his demeanour showing a growing lack of interest in continuing the conversation, as she made a snap and, to his mind, superficial decision on the lay out of his papers.

Hearing the clink of china, and the sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps on the stairs, Watson moved quickly to open the door for their landlady, while Holmes stood by the fire refilling his pipe facing away from their guest. A second later, Mrs. Hudson bustled through carrying a large tray containing a tea pot, cups and saucers, and a plate of sandwiches, which she deposited on the table with a sigh of relief. "Here you are, Doctor, Mr. Holmes...Miss Thurlow. If you run out, I have some more sandwiches made up downstairs. Feel free to fetch them. I have to go out for an hour or two," she explained to Watson, casting a quick glance at her other lodger's back.

Helen as well regarded the detective's back, a rather thoughtful expression on her face, slipping into one of discomfort at the thought that perhaps she'd offended him with her forthrightly teasing words.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Watson said with a smile. "Be sure to wrap up well. There's a brisk wind blowing today."

She smiled back at her more personable lodger, and nodded. "Not to worry, Doctor. I shall bundle up accordingly," she reassured him, before ambling out the door, and closing it behind her.

Once she was gone, Helen rose to her feet somewhat hesitantly. "I did not mean to offend you, Mr. Holmes. I know something of the idea of finding order in chaos. With your mind, you surely know exactly where everything is, and have grouped accordingly." She paused in looking at his frock coated back, and turned to Watson, feeling rather embarrassed and unsure of herself, before continuing in a quiet voice, "Perhaps, I should go? I did wish to discuss what we talked about in the carriage further with you, but maybe I can make an appointment at your surgery instead."

At that, and on striking a match and putting it to his pipe, Holmes turned back around to face her, drawing gently on the fragrant tobacco with the mildest of looks on his face, as the smoke began to rise.

"You did not..." he said between puffs a resigned air filling his tone, "offend me in...the slightest, Miss Thurlow. I am well used...to such superficially aesthetic remarks from women, hampered as they often are by their natures," he finished, drawing on the pipe as it lit properly and sat down unperturbed. "I am gratified, however, that your mind has shown a capability to see beyond that," he replied, before inquiring, "Tea?"

Watson, feeling the air of affability degenerate under the weight of regrettable remarks and Holmes's snappishness, made a valiant effort to keep things sociable and turned his gaze back to her. "Please…if you have something to discuss with me, do stay," he pressed, seeing how Holmes odd mixture of rebuke and reassurance could more than fail to keep her here.

Helen stared at him with the most wary expression on her face, unsure which of her options to choose. She'd heard enough in his words to know that even if she had not offended him, his resignation and referral once again to generalities amongst women indicated that she had instead disappointed him…and for some reason, she found the latter more disturbing then the former.

She did however wish to speak with his companion and, with an inward sigh, sank back down to the couch. "Very well," she agreed, though her tone showed she had her reservations.

Watson poured the tea, while glancing at the doggedly placid face of his friend. On another day, Holmes might have ignored it as a duck did the rain, but today he was irascible and touchy, his bullishness only having grown in the hours Watson had been out, and had he known he would never have taken Miss Thurlow back for tea. For her slips in comment, mild as they were, had played at the worst of times into Holmes's innate distrust of women as a gender and what he regarded as their superficiality.

As he handed her a cup of tea quickly, he had no doubt that Holmes was resigned to her remark as another indication that his theory was correct. "Milk or lemon, Miss Thurlow? And do you take sugar?" he asked her.

"Just milk, thank you, Doctor," she replied softly, casting a quick glance at the other man in the room, and bit her lip, still feeling rather uncomfortable.

"Holmes?" Watson looked over at him as well. "Are you partaking?"

"Thank you, no, Watson," he answered, as he lounged in his chair. "My pipe is quite sufficient for now."

Watson nodded and went to fetch the milk jug. "Some sandwiches, Miss Thurlow?" he asked from the table, his eyes flitting between the anxious woman and the seemingly uncaring man.

Whereas before she had been rather peckish, after her light-hearted comment gone wrong, she found she had no appetite, and quietly shook her head, cursing herself for her forthright mouth, for she knew that it had always been her downfall.

Watson stared at the rather large pile of sandwiches, suddenly more aware than ever of the others waiting in the kitchen below, and he the only one to eat them. With a sigh that at least broke the rather oppressive silence in the room, he began to fill his plate, resigning himself to sandwiches for his meal, as he would have to eat the vast majority to assuage Mrs. Hudson, even though that would leave him no room for dinner.

"So..." Holmes said quite suddenly, his eyes not moving from they were boring into the fire, "you have business with Watson, Miss Thurlow? Pray...do not let me interfere. What might the good doctor do for you? I'm sure he is only too keen to know."

Sitting down with his overburdened plate of sandwiches and balancing it with his tea, Watson nodded eagerly, glad not only to hear it, but to interrupt the silence as well. "Please, yes...do go on. What can I do for you?"

She swallowed, her wary eyes turning from Watson to Holmes once more. "I did plan on sending a note to Dr. Watson in the next day or so for an appointment to speak with him. However, since I was fortunate to bump into him today, I had thought to simply make my inquiries now. But, if it is inconvenient, I can simply follow through with my original intention, and just return at another time," she explained, turning back to the doctor. "I do not wish to put either of you out in any way."

"You are not!" Watson assured her swiftly and kindly, before glancing at his colleague. "Is that not so, old man?" he urged.

"Not in any way," Holmes said quietly, waving his hand with the pipe in it he gestured towards her. "Continue, Miss Thurlow."

She swallowed again, and nodded. "Very well," she replied, taking sip of her tea before continuing, "I would first like to thank you, Doctor, for your kind and most helpful counsel you gave me regarding the matter I was concerned with a couple of weeks ago, and directing me to Mr. Fairfield. You not only saved me a great deal of worry, but helped me find someone who I can trust to ensure that matters such as those will never happen again."

She gave him a very grateful smile, as she took another sip of her tea. "It is because of this matter, that I have become frankly even more aware of myself as being a woman managing a large company with many rather gaping holes of knowledge. I want to have my father's vision flourish, and, indeed, leave my role in fourteen years time having not only managed the company, but have improved upon it in some small way. But I cannot do that, and be constantly in the dark. I need someone who understands how this all works, or who can point me in the direction of someone who does. I need someone I trust to go to for counsel and aid." She took a deep breath. "And I would be very honoured if you would consider aiding me in this."

Watson stared at her with an expression of stunned pleasure, trying and failing to find a way of responding, while Holmes, for his part, finally turned his head back to the pair, his eyes going to straight to his friend.

"Watson? Just what have you been getting up to in the world of high finance?" he asked with amusement. "Have you added pecuniary consultant to physician and detective on your resume?"

Watson flushed slightly with embarrassment and coughed. "No...no...it was nothing really, Holmes," he insisted, shaking his head quickly. "Miss Thurlow contacted me near the start of the month while she was in town as she said. She was a little perturbed by a situation that had developed at the Head Office of Balfour & Thurlow, during a meeting of the Board of Directors...or rather after the meeting. Apparently one of the directors, a man named Martin Harrison, had contacted Miss Thurlow several times before the meeting to inform her that it was imperative that she vote for the takeover bid of an American distribution company…something that was tabled to appear on the agenda at that meeting."

"He informed her that if she did not put her casting vote towards it, that she would be putting the very future of the company in jeopardy as expansion into America was absolutely essential for survival. He was most insistent and used, what could only be, what I would describe as a subtle yet undeniable combination of fatherly advice and scare tactics designed specifically to frighten a young lady unsure in the ways of high finance into a quick decision."

"He assured her his haste and urgency was down to the nearness of this important meeting, and she needed to make a firm decision in advance as things would get confusing for a lady who had no experience of such meetings. He gave her some documentation on the subject, which on scrutinising it I could make neither heads nor tails of, and yet he had told her to trust him on this matter based on it and on the long good standing he had held with her father, while assuring her he had only her interests and that of the company at heart."

She nodded in remembrance. "I have heard that line taken much too often as of late, and I simply do not make decisions rashly. As quick as my mouth can be, I never make an important decision on something so vital without knowing all the facts involved."

"But..." Watson continued with a nod, "the facts were in short supply as the board was deeply divided over this matter, and everyone had a different tale to tell that contradicted the other. So...Miss Thurlow, exasperated as indeed anyone might be, sought me out merely to have a male head to bounce it off, and to see if I might have any little insight as to their ways."

Holmes's eyes moved over to take in hers. "You did not go to your mother's male relatives for advice and assistance?" he enquired. "I seem to recall your father saying many of them still worked at the firm."

"Oh yes," she agreed. "That they do...and all were very willing and free with their advice. And...as my father did inform me prior to his death...all were very motivated to their own self interests." She looked vaguely disgusted at the recollections this brought. "I had hoped he was merely exaggerating...but indeed, he quite hit it on the nail. Men whom I had known my whole life and thought sincere, and indeed are in matters of family, are vastly different when their pocketbooks come into play."

Holmes nodded slowly, before turning his attention back to Watson, and gesturing for him to continue.

"Well," his colleague continued, putting down the tea he had sipped on while she had been talking, "needless to say, I'm a poorer financier than I am a detective...but I do have connections, and a knack for keeping them. So, while I listened, I took the line that Mr. Harrison's tactics smacked to me of desperation."

"Quite right, Watson," Holmes agreed. "Any businessman confident of what he was saying would've taken the time to provide Miss Thurlow with adequate proof of his claims, and a proper proposal rather than merely badgering her continuously. There was entirely too much urgency and use of emotional appeals to past relationships involved."

"Just so," Watson concurred, as he continued, "I put Miss Thurlow in the way of Nicholas Fairfield, an old army chum of mine who now works quite successfully in the city. I gave her a letter of introduction, explained the situation, and asked him if he would be so good as to investigate the claims put forward by Mr. Harrison..." He paused, a smile forming on his face, quite enjoying the attention he was getting from Holmes in the recounting of the story, and the feeling of the tables reversing somewhat. "What he discovered was exactly what I suspected," he said a trifle smugly.

"Harrison had a controlling interest in the American firm...well disguised, most probably using a third party trading name...but traceable by an alert and experienced brokerage or banker," Holmes interjected just as Watson was about to say exactly that.

The older man deflated, slightly irritated and glum that his friend had naturally deduced the ending. "Yes, Holmes," he agreed with a sigh. "Precisely."

"And so Harrison would've made an absolute killing on the purchase," Holmes said quietly before enthusing, "Capital, Watson! Splendid...a job well done."

The smile returned swiftly to the physician's face, his demeanour perking up considerably at that. "Yes, well...it was quite obvious really when you think about it."

"Nevertheless, you responded to a request for help, followed the logical course of reasoning and action...and uncovered the impending fraud. Well done, old man!" his friend congratulated with a smile, which only increased as he watched Watson preen a little.

Helen found herself smiling as well. "Indeed, I am now doubly indebted to him," she added with a twinkle in her eyes. "And as I told him earlier, I am deeply grateful for all he has done for me and my family." Turned back to Watson, she continued, "I think I am a good judge of character, Doctor, and I did not come to my decision lightly. You have shown me that you are kind and true, and wise enough to know your limits. I cannot think of anyone more suitable to turn to for aid and impartial advice. Will you help me?"

After a moment, during which a deep flush spread over his cheeks, Watson set aside his plate of sandwiches and stood up, offering her his hand, and bowed over hers once she'd taken it. "Miss Thurlow, I would be honoured," he told her earnestly, and upon seating himself once more, took on a serious expression. "Contact me whenever you wish, but as you come up to town every week, might I suggest a semi regular meeting...maybe twice a month?" He paused, casting a quick glance at his fellow lodger. "At my practice perhaps."

"Why your practice, Watson?" Holmes asked, striking another match to relight his sputtering pipe.

"I...well..." Watson looked at him, glancing at Helen from the corner of his eye. "I wouldn't want to disturb you."

Helen turned to gaze at him, her eyes having returned to their more evaluating state, as she nodded in agreement. "I agree. I have no wish to inconvenience you, Mr. Holmes. You are a busy man, and I would hate to have my business with Dr. Watson be even the slightest disturbance to your work."

"It is you who would be disturbed," Holmes pointed out. "You would rarely get enough peace at Watson's surgery to have any kind of conversation. This too is Watson's place of occupation," he continued. "And it is...God knows..." He heaved a great sigh at his lack of work. "A great deal quieter than Watson's practice when his patients know he's there...and patients can sniff out a doctor in the house better than the most well developed bloodhound." He put out his match, and tossed it in the fire. "Split them if you will...but give yourselves at least one chance of a quiet consultation a month."

The young woman merely turned back to the older man at the table, awaiting his verdict.

Watson looked at him carefully. "Well...if you're sure, Holmes," he said slowly. "We could split the meetings, one here, one there? Perhaps meet for lunch, Miss Thurlow, rather than at my practice? I lunch out on the days I hold my practice to avoid patients as Holmes says...Mary...Miss Mary Morstan, my fiancée, usually joins me on those days. I'm sure she would be only too pleased to make your acquaintance, if you don't mind that is?"

Helen smiled gratefully and nodded. "Of course, she is more than welcome. If you do not think she will be horribly bored, that is."

"On the contrary," he assured her with a grin, "Mary would be only too fascinated to hear about the world of high finance and wheeling and dealing. She is a remarkably level-headed woman as Holmes can attest to…a very calming influence, just the sort of person you'd need to have around you after a jangling morning dealing with overstuffed men in Saville Row suits."

Helen laughed in spite of herself. "Then, I shall look forward to meeting her, Doctor. For dealing with such men is rather tiring and more than a little stressful."

"Wonderful," he enthused. "Then, shall we say the second and fourth Friday of every month? Unless needs dictate otherwise, of course."

"That sounds like an eminently sound plan, Doctor," she agreed, taking a sip of her tea, and breathing an inward sigh of relief.

"I shall inform Mary this evening when I go out to dine with her," Watson continued with a nod, shooting a quick glance at Holmes again. "As next week is the fourth Friday, we can meet all together for lunch. I'm sure she will be insistent on that. After that, we move into December. If you prefer, we can meet in town for lunch then too…as I'm sure you will be shopping for Christmas as well, and it might be easier for you?" he inquired, glancing at Holmes yet again, as he tried to gauge his reaction. However, if his friend had any indication that he was deliberately keeping her clear of him despite his insistence that having her here was fine, he gave no indication of it.

She followed the doctor's glance, and nodded, feeling her anxiety return a little. "Whatever you think is best, Dr. Watson. Either location is perfectly acceptable to me."

"Perhaps, it might be best...for the Christmas period," he said softly with a slightly weak smile. He had hoped Holmes's admiration for how Miss Thurlow had handled herself throughout her father's case would stand her in good stead with him, and their meeting in St. Albans had seemed amicable enough, but once again, things hadn't quite gone the way he'd hoped. Holmes may have been calm and cool on the outside, but he had his own ideas, and, on occasion, was the touchiest and most unpredictable of men. He sighed internally, best to have some time go by before they met again.

She inclined her head, finishing the last of her tea, before rising to her feet, and crossing over to the table and laying her cup down on the tray. "Of course, Doctor," she replied with a tiny smile, her eyes glancing just for a moment to the smoking detective before exhaling just a little. "And now, I really should be going."

Watson rose swiftly to his feet. "Of course...you have to get back to St. Albans and it's already getting dark. We should let you go."

Unfolding himself from his seat, Holmes stood slowly. "A pleasure to see you again, Miss Thurlow," he said, his pipe in the corner of his mouth where he held it, as he inclined his head politely. "Thanks to your new mentor, I'm sure we will have occasion to meet again."

She returned the gesture, and gave him a small smile. "I'm sure we will," she agreed, before pausing, and then quickly saying, "Again...I would like to apologise if I did in any way offend you. I assure you it was not my intention."

"And I assure you once again, that none was taken, Miss Thurlow," he responded, his face as composed and unreadable as ever. "I wish you well on your journey back home, and my regards to your mother and to your brothers."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I will convey it to them this evening," she replied, turning back to his partner. "And thank you again, Doctor. I will look forward to meeting with you and Miss Morstan next Friday."

"I too, Miss Thurlow. Now, I will walk you out," Watson offered gallantly. "We shall get you a cab."

"Thank you. That is most kind," she returned with a smile, as she followed him out the room.

As he closed the door behind him, and walked with her down the stairs, Watson waited while she donned her coat. "Miss Thurlow," he said at length, "I must apologise for my friend...as I mentioned, he has been rather touchy these past few days, and I'm afraid you received an edge of it."

She sighed and shook her head. "No...he is not to blame. I only meant to tease him to lighten the mood...and I'm afraid I misjudged the situation, and it backfired." She gave him a wry smile. "I'm afraid my long years alone, and now spending time with lawyers and financiers, has left my witty repartee in dire need of a refresher course. The absence of finishing school creeps through, does it not?" She shook her head with a small self deprecating chuckle.

"Not in the slightest, I assure you," he replied with an incline of his head, giving her an encouraging smile. "Finishing school would merely have gilded the lily in my estimation," he complimented her, causing her to blush with pleasure and thanks. "And your repartee is only in need of a little fine tuning regarding its timing. Holmes is rather like a thoroughbred stallion, I'm afraid…as highly strung as that instrument of his with odd notions that run through that otherwise brilliant mind of his...when things are said to him, and indeed who says them, can be just as important as what is said sometimes. It doesn't make him an easy man to get along with at times..." He paused with a sigh. "But there are a great many compensations, I assure you."

"I see," she murmured, giving him a resigned look, before moving to pick up her parcels. "It is well then that I did not mention the bullet holes I observed in the wall over the dining table, seeing as he had gone to the trouble to cover them with a rather charming painting."

Watson blinked in surprise at her having noticed them; with only a partial one or two visible, peeking out from beneath the frame of the landscape hanging there, it took a keen eye to catch them. For all that, the doctor gave her an embarrassed look. "Yes...sometimes he...he practices his marksmanship in the house," he explained with another long suffering sigh. "It's a wonder Mrs. Hudson's nerves aren't shot to pieces after all this time, if you'll pardon the expression." He shook his head wryly. "All though, as you say, had you queried him on _those_, he most likely would have told you about that cheerfully. There is no hidden element in that, as there is in his filing 'system,'" he mused with an apologetic shrug. "He is, I'm afraid, a complex, contrary, and contradictory man."

"As I am quickly becoming aware," she agreed, straightening with her parcels in hand.

Opening the front door for her, he accompanied her outside, and moved to the pavement, looking for and gesturing to a cab near the end of the road, before turning back to help her with her parcels once more. "Well, I can promise you a more sedate and calm time next time we meet, Miss Thurlow. My Mary is not at all like my roommate, nor vice versa, thank the lord above. I can think of no worse fate than being married to Sherlock Holmes," he concluded with a chuckle.

She laughed at little at that. "Heavens forefend, Doctor," she agreed. "I shall await your telegram as to the location for our business luncheon, and wish you well on your evening out tonight and beyond," she added with an incline of her head, before climbing into the waiting cab, once her packages had been loaded in.

"Thank you, and safe home, Miss Thurlow," Watson returned with a smile. "I'll be in touch soon. Kings Cross Station," he called up to the cab driver, and stepped back, giving a short wave to see her off on her way.

Once the cab turned out of the street, he sighed, rather thankful he didn't have to spend the evening with Holmes, who was rather obviously destined now for one of his moods, and turned to glance up and find his friend moving away from the window above, where he had obviously been watching, and disappear back into the sitting room.

A few moments later, the strains of the violin echoed out into the street below, and shaking his head at his behaviour, Watson headed back into the house muttering, "Complex , contrary and contradictory," to himself over and over again.

* * *

_**Authors' Note: Thank you all for such kind and insightful reviews! Yes! We're back! (Why do I feel an Eminem song nagging at my brain now...heh) We hope you enjoying the story, and continue to do so. I must say it's fun getting to peek into characters' heads... :D Now to address some comments: Why does Holmes seem tired? Well, we picked up as they were on the train back from Dartmoor and the three-four weeks they were occupied with Hound...so if he seems rather tired, that's why. The mystery - sorry folks...no telling...but I think you'll really enjoy it (I'm under orders not to blab...my co-writer knows where I live...gulp). Helen's outspokenness...yeah...well, as you just read...she doesn't always say the right thing at the right time. Still... And as for hopes of romance...well, as promised there is some...Watson's getting married! smiles cheekily at readers Thank you again for the reads and/or reviews, and please feel free to keep telling us what you think. We love hearing from you! Till next chapter... Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	3. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

_Chapter Three: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_

_December 26, 1888_

The snow came a day too late for Christmas Day, choosing to fall instead as the sun began to set on Boxing Day. The fall was heavy at first, accumulating quickly on the still, quiet, city streets of London as the inhabitants recovered from their Christmas Day cheer, many recuperating in time to begin the second round of celebrations that invariably occurred as they went out to visit friends and relatives on this the second day of the twelve Festival Days of Christmas.

The flakes drifted thickly but slowly down on the negligible breeze, as the Brougham Watson had hired for the evening turned off the Tottenham Court Road onto Alfred Place, an upper middle class residential area of wealthy merchants and bankers who had not quite made the leap to either exceptionally wealthy or high society. It was, however, notable in the minds of both Watson and his silent friend seated opposite for one particular resident. For here lay the home of Mrs. Cecil Forrester and, more particularly, of the governess of her children, Miss Mary Morstan, soon to be Mrs. John Watson, M.D.

Watson leaned out the window eagerly as they turned into the Place, causing Holmes to barely stifle a sigh and a roll of his eyes at the puppyish quality his closest friend always seemed to don whenever his lady love drew near.

"Really, Watson," he chastised. "You look rather like my father's old Labrador with your head protruding from the carriage window like that. All we're shy of is your ears flapping in the wind. Try to contain your enthusiasm, and remember you last saw your lady on Christmas Eve, not Easter Eve," he groused quietly, his white gloved hands holding his silver topped cane in front of him as he sat in his silk top hat and dress clothes beneath his black overcoat and white scarf.

Similarly garbed, Watson drew his head back, and brushed the snowflakes from his own hat to look at his closest friend.

"Holmes, my dear fellow, if you were a different sort of man, I would surely appeal to your sense of romance and of the season. But as doing so is akin to making the same appeal to a calculating machine, I will simply say that I have yet to wish my fiancée a Merry Christmas, and am eager to do so," he replied, talking to him as if he might to a small child, for on this subject at least, Sherlock Holmes proved himself to be ignorant in the extreme.

Holmes huffed slightly the tapping of his cane on the carriage floor indicating a certain level of nervous tension in his demeanour, causing Watson to sniff and look at him closely.

"I do hope you're going to take a happier line with your professor when you see him this evening. I thought you were in a good mood, and eager to meet him," he commented.

"I am..." replied Holmes quickly, "so much so that I would be obliged if you didn't take too long in wishing your fiancée the compliments of the season." He paused with a brief nod towards the window on seeing the figure of Mary Morstan standing in the shadows of the portico of the house as she awaited their arrival.

Glancing at the doctor, Holmes pursed his lips, evaluating his own somewhat excitable behaviour and finding it lacking in courtesy to his friend. "Driver!" he called, tapping the ceiling of the carriage. "Pull in here," he ordered, drawing the carriage up short of the house in order to give them a little more privacy. "Off you go, Watson..." the detective teased, as he pushed the door open with his cane. "Bound away to her."

Giving his colleague an arch look and a swift smile, Watson firmly tapped his top hat down on his head, and stepped swiftly out onto the crisp snow covered path, before walking briskly towards the steps and covered doorway to where his fiancée stood.

"Good evening, Mary," he greeted her with a broad smile, taking off his hat as he reached her and the stone awning, his eyes shining in the lamplight. "You look simply splendid," he noted appreciatively as she stood before him, her long pale blue dress only covered by her long black army overcoat, which indicated her lack of funds, and her coiffured hair covered in a light scarf. "If a trifle cold," he added teasingly, as he leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Are we late?" he asked, staying close to her.

Mary Morstan gave her fiancé a bright and warm smile, as she offered him her hand, squeezing his as soon as he took it. "Not at all, John," she replied with a shake of her blond head. "I suppose my excitement was so great that I couldn't contain myself a minute longer indoors." Her chuckle was light and mirthful, as her gaze took him in. "That and my young charges, though in their early adolescence, would not stop pestering me with questions about my upcoming evening. I must admit, the quiet fall of the snow was rather welcome."

"Did you have a good Christmas with the Forresters?" he queried, before dropping his own eyes a little. "I must confess to thinking of you often yesterday."

Her thumb stroked his softly, while her quiet but pleased smile widened on her face. "It was pleasant, and the girls were very pleased with their presents. Though most certainly very merry, I must confess to having a feeling of incompleteness..."

With a nod, Watson gaze rose back up to meet hers. "Most definitely...I look forward to a time when our Christmases will always be spent together and in our own home," he agreed softly, before, pausing only to take a quick glance around, grasped her gently by the shoulders and moved her back into the shadows for privacy. Lowering his head, he kissed her softly, his arms slipping around her, and holding her until they broke. "Merry Christmas, Mary," he whispered softly into her lips.

"Merry Christmas, John," she murmured with a contented sigh, her gloved fingers stroking his back softly, and her blue eyes shining with affection and perhaps a little more.

"Now!" he said briskly, taking a reluctant step away from her and slipping her arm around his. "I promised Holmes I wouldn't dally with you too long. He is eager to get to the Foundation Party...if you can believe it." An amused grin formed on his face, as he started to walk with her.

Her eyebrows rose up in swift amazement. "He...is? Why?" she inquired, rather baffled at the concept of her fiancé's generally socially reclusive roommate actually seeking out a large gathering of people for recreation.

"A-ha!" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling deviously. "I told you about our receiving the invitation from Miss Thurlow to the Thurlow Foundation Christmas Party and his immediate negative reaction?" he asked her with a chuckle.

She nodded slowly with a sigh. "Indeed...what changed his mind? Not Helen, I should think..."

"No indeed," Watson agreed with a nod. "All though it was Miss Thurlow who pressed me to see if he would come. I believe she still carries some slight worry over how things lay between them the last time they parted and wishes to make amends. But, no matter how I pressed him, he was not for turning. _Until_...I happened to catch sight of Miss Thurlow's guest list for the Foundation Party that last time you and I lunched with her just before Christmas." A rather smug smile washed over his features. "And whose name should I spy near the top, but the name of one Professor Otto Emmerich."

Mary gazed up at him in confusion. "Who is Professor Otto Emmerich?"

"Professor Otto Emmerich, my dear, is one of Holmes's particular heroes," he explained. "Though he may mean nothing to you or, until I knew Holmes, to me either. Emmerich is an International Prize winner for Chemistry...which, as you know, is one of Holmes's passions. The Herr Professor has pioneered a groundbreaking unit in Heidelberg University for the advanced study of forensic biochemistry. Holmes is wildly interested in it, and when I told him that Arthur Thurlow, Miss Thurlow's late father, had, before his death, secured the prominent scientist as their expert on ascertaining which scientific endeavours worthy of grants, and would be present at the party...well, never did you see such a rapid change in his deportment!" There was a brief pause, before he added, "Well, for Holmes at any rate."

She bit her lip, barely containing her smile as they approached the carriage. "I see...well...I hope all involved have a pleasant evening indeed."

"All going well," he agreed. "Miss Thurlow should feel better, Holmes will get to meet with his hero...only Professor Emmerich may not know what awaits him." Another chuckle escaped him, as he opened the door and extended his hand to her to help her in.

Mary's eyes, dancing with amusement in response, met his, before she stepped into the carriage and seated herself opposite the tall detective. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes," she greeted him. "How fare you this fine evening?"

"Well enough, Miss Morstan, thank you." Holmes tipped his hat to her, and inclined his head in salutation. "You are keeping well, I trust?" he asked, as Watson climbed in and took his seat alongside his fiancée, before closing the door.

"Yes, quite well," she replied with a smile and incline of her head.

"Driver, Upper Brook Street, in Mayfair, please!" Watson called up to their chauffeur, and a moment later the Brougham took off again, gliding smoothly along the snow covered streets. "All going well, we should be there in about fifteen minutes or so," the doctor estimated, looking at his friend and fiancée both with a smile. "About five minutes past the hour...fashionably late!"

"I wonder what the Grufstreds are like," he pondered, slipping Mary's arm around his. "He's the Vice President of the Foundation, isn't that what Miss Thurlow said? Randolf Grufstred?" he asked his fiancée.

She nodded in assent, before replying, "Yes, he's a founding partner at the solicitor's _Grufstred & Banes_. Martha is his wife and they have four boys and a girl. Helen says they are a most genial couple."

"Yes, and with a healthy family!" Watson agreed, smiling at the woman he loved, who returned the gesture, as she wondered for a moment what their family would be like. Indeed, she had high hopes for a healthy, full one herself.

Holmes glanced over at Mary, and noted the couple's mutual smile, deducing quickly where their minds were both drifting to. However, while he was privately happy that Watson had found a trustworthy woman to once again love and share his life with him, his tolerance levels for public displays and expressions of such affection remained decidedly low, and he quite happily and expediently changed the subject. "I understand, Miss Morstan, that you have made Miss Thurlow's acquaintance quite frequently of late?"

Pulling her eyes away from her fiancé's, she turned back to the third member of the party. "Yes, indeed. We met through John at one of their work luncheons, and found we had quite a bit in common. She's a very charming and astute woman," she replied, adding the last part for the detective's benefit, so as to put a kind word in his ear about her new friend, whom she knew was still concerned that she had offended him in some way.

"Undoubtedly so," Holmes responded with a light shrug. "Characteristics that will no doubt serve her well thrust as she is not only back into high society, but also into the world of businessmen. All though she has a worthy champion in your fiancée," he concluding, quirking a half smile at Watson.

The young woman smiled in return, as she squeezed the doctor's hand. "Quite. No woman could have a better advocate or advisor," she agreed.

Watson flushed slightly and coughed. "I merely gave Miss Thurlow a helping hand and a few names of my acquaintance. I have done nothing any other gentleman wouldn't do for a lady in trouble. You both make entirely too much of it."

Mary just continued to gaze at him adoringly, her fingers entwining with his own, while Holmes looked at them again and with a tiny shake of his head, and unable to find a subject that would not bring them back to such doe eyed looks, promptly turned his own eyes out to the city streets.

"That's as maybe, Watson," he said, "but Miss Thurlow for all her astuteness and undoubted resilience will need considerable help from all quarters, as we have already seen there are plenty of other 'gentlemen' out there quite willing to fleece her, her own Mother's family included. The more Watsons she can find the better."

Watson looked over at him, mindful of Helen Thurlow's concerns regarding his friend. "A Holmes or two probably wouldn't go amiss either," he ventured.

Holmes sighed quietly. "There is only one of me, as you are quite often relieved and quick to point out, Watson," he pointed out, smiling quietly to himself. "And I doubt very much after the outcome of the last time I was operating on her behalf that she would require my aid again." He glanced over at the older man with a shake of his head. "No, better off with a man like you, I think."

Mary frowned ever so slightly, only knowing that, like she herself, a case had brought Helen into their lives, but not knowing the particulars, it made it hard to reassure the dear friend of her fiancé. Sighing inwardly, she pushed back her innate curiosity, and gave Holmes a supportive smile. "I am sure she would be pleased for any assistance you could offer, should she require it."

"Watson is far better suited to the role then I..." he insisted, continuing to stare out the window. "I am more black knight then white."

Glancing back to Watson, Mary nodded quietly, not knowing the other man well enough to truly take on his assumptions, as the doctor wrapped her hand in both of his. "You have championed more people then I would ever dream to Holmes, and at far greater risk," he pointed out.

"Perhaps, but my reasons are far less altruistic then yours, Watson." His hazel eyes sparkled just a little as he flashed his colleague a smile. "I do it for the love it, for the mystery and the knowledge...just as I go to this party tonight. Not for social purposes but for experience and knowledge." The gleam of anticipation in his eyes was highlighted clearly in the passing street light.

The carriage sped on, and passed through Grosvenor Square to just beyond, moving towards Brook Street and what was in fact the grand twin four storey homes of Mr. and Mrs. Randolf Grufstred and their children. Having purchased their neighbour's home, the Grufrstreds had, with the help of one of the talented young architects the Thurlow Foundation, converted the two large homes into a near palatial residence.

A residence which was currently glowing with light and busy with the arrival of guests, as other carriages and cabs pulled in ahead and invitees streamed up to the doorway which was perpetually open. Once inside, the footmen, who were taking their invitations and their coats, directed them towards the two wide sweeps of polished granite stairs that led to the richly carpeted stage landing where the butler would announce them to the waiting assembly, the Grufstreds, and to the Lady President of the Foundation on whose behalf they were hosting this party due to her home's distance from London and state of mourning.

Disembarking from the carriage in turn, the trio made their way to the snowy steps, where they entered the large wide foyer warmly lit and tastefully decorated in red and gold trimmed green garlands for the season. And on divesting themselves of their outerwear, passed the downstairs study and drawing rooms and made for the curved staircase upon the initial landing of which their hosts stood greeting their guests in turn.

Once announced, the bulk of the other attendees departed into the ballroom beyond but many stood above on the top landing some four steps beyond their hosts by the balcony, greeting each other and awaiting the arrival of mutual friends.

"Dr. John Watson, Miss Mary Morstan, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the butler boomed, reading from his newly delivered invitations. A great number of people lingering above stopped to turn and stare at the new arrivals, their eyes going to the noted figure of Holmes who pointedly ignored their stares, and, revealed as he was in his white tie and tails, merely straightened his cuffs in the most serene of fashions as they made their way to their hosts.

Helen turned almost instantly towards the stairs on hearing the familiar names, her smile evident on her face as her eyes met the doctor's and then his fiancée's; however, when they came to rest on her advisor's colleague they widened just a little in shock. For walking up the stairs was one of the most handsome and dashing men she had ever seen, his calm assurance and lack of reaction to the talk his very name produced behind her only adding to the mystique about him. Realising she was staring, she turned back to her companions, smoothing down the new slightly beaded black mourning dress she wore, while fighting the flush of embarrassment that was striving to show on her cheeks.

Randolf Grufstred was a self made man, the son of an Austrian immigrant, and one of the most jovial and convivial men you could have wished to meet. In no way whatsoever reminiscent of a lawyer, he had impressed Arthur Thurlow to such an extent that he been immediately taken on by him to help represent both his firm and in time as part of his charitable foundation. Short and rather round, so was his wife Martha, his match in every way, as kind and pleasant as her husband, a doting mother of five, and well loved by those who knew her...if a tad excitable.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed, clutching Helen's hand. "Did Marsden say Mr. Holmes? Did he, Randolf?" Her voice rose almost to a squeak, as she turned to her husband.

"Yes, my sweet." He nodded, his fingers straightening his waxed moustache. "Indeed, he did."

She fanned herself quickly. "I can hardly believe he came! He hardly ever comes to parties you know," she told Helen conspiratorially.

The young woman smiled fondly at the matron, and nodded in agreement. "I have indeed heard that," she agreed, glancing down at her friends and the approaching detective.

Martha peered over at him, her rapid fan beats slowing gradually, and as Randolf greeted a lawyer friend, her fan slowed to a stop before she placed it over her mouth and leaned once more towards Helen. "My dear...his descriptions in _The Strand_ and illustrations don't remotely do him justice!" she whispered to her quickly. "He is tall, yes, and aristocratic looking with those aquiline features, but quite robust and athletic, and with a full head of hair neatly pomaded...not the rather gaunt man with the receding hairline they paint him in his pictures."

She quickly greeted Randolf's friend as did Helen, and as his friend moved off Randolf chuckled. "I think you'll find, my sweet, that the man illustrated in _The Strand_ is a model. I somehow doubt that Mr. Holmes, considering what we know of his nature, would bother to pose so he could be drawn...especially, as apparently he does not even particularly care for the stories."

"How pleasing a discovery..." Martha murmured with a smile, appearing to ignore them both. "He is much more attractive in person."

"And I am sure," Helen added as the queue moved on, "that it is for his protection as well...for if they were to draw him from life, would he not be accosted in the streets from people who need help or simply wish to make his acquaintance? Never mind, should his likeness get back to the ones he is working against." She paused as her co-hostess's last words filtered in, and found her mind quite agreeing with them.

Martha snapped her fan shut and looked at the other woman, tapping her on the arm lightly and repeatedly with the fan in admiration. "My dear Helen, how very clever of you! I never would've thought of that! Of course, that is a most sensible reason."

"How do you do, Mr Grufstred," Watson's voice intruded on them, as he bowed politely. "John Watson, M.D and this is my fiancée, Miss Mary Morstan. Thank you for the kind invitation into your home this Yuletide."

"Not at all! Not at all, Dr. Watson! Miss Morstan!" Randolf took his hand, and shook it warmly, before taking Mary's hand and kissing it. "It is we who are honoured by your presence. My wife, Martha," he introduced her as Watson kissed her hand and the two women shook hands. "And I believe you know Miss Thurlow," he finished with a beaming smile.

"Indeed." Watson smiled at her, as he took her outstretched gloved hand and kissed it. "It is good to see you again so soon, Miss Thurlow, and a Merry Christmas," he greeted her, before making way for his fiancée to greet her.

"Merry Christmas, Doctor," she returned, before grinning at the other woman and taking her hands. "And how are you, Mary? How beautiful your dress is! Did you enjoy your Christmas? And thank you for the scarf! It was most becoming, and keeps the chill out wonderfully," she enthused, her words tumbling out in a rather rambling if excited flow.

Also showing the same girlish gleam in her eyes, her friend smiled widely back. "Yes, thank you. Christmas was most pleasant indeed. And thank you for the shawl. The work is so fine...it must have taken you ages to make," she responded, to which Helen merely shook her head in reply.

"Think nothing of it, Mary. It was a pleasure to make...truly...and you are most welcome indeed," she insisted.

"You have given myself and my wife...and indeed our children...much pleasure with your stories, Doctor," Randolf informed Watson quickly.

"Oh yes!" Martha chimed in with a nod. "Wonderful renditions of such adventures...we simply must talk later! And would you do me the honour of autographing my copy of your first novel?"

Watson smiled at the petite, round woman, and inclined his head again. "It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Grufstred," he replied before taking Mary's arm and moving away with another smile at Helen before they left.

Next in the queue, Holmes stepped forward, and similarly inclined his head to his host. "Compliments of the season, Mr. Grufstred I am..."

"No need for introductions, sir," Randolph interjected as he took the detective's hand and shook it. "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Holmes."

"Indeed?" Holmes arched an eyebrow at the vigorousness of the shake. "I hope it has paved a favourable path in doing so."

"Exceedingly so, sir...exceedingly," the solicitor agreed with a nod. "As a lawyer, sir, it is most refreshing to meet a man concerned with justice." His eyes twinkled at the joke made at his trade's expense.

Holmes regarded him for a moment before his mouth quirked upwards in a smile, until finally he released a short chuckle. "And indeed, sir, just as refreshing to meet a lawyer with a sense of humour about his own trade," he replied, as his own handshake firmness increased in return.

Randolph's smile widened, before releasing his hand to introduce him to the woman standing next to him, who's fan was fluttering wildly as she reached out her hand for Holmes to take. "My good lady wife, Martha, Mr. Holmes."

"An honour, Mrs. Grufstred," the tall man intoned politely, bowing over it slowly. "Most kind of you to invite me to your home."

"Oh no, Mr. Holmes," she insisted with a rapid shake of her head. "It was so kind of you to come. You do not know it, sir, but you will have made me the singular envy of Mayfair. I shall be able to dine out on this for years!"

Smiling but looking slightly bemused at that, Holmes inclined his head in a slow nod. "I am gratified that I might be able to...help...in some small way," he replied choosing his words carefully.

"And of course, like the doctor, you know Miss Thurlow, our Foundation President and co-hostess this evening?" Randolf finished.

Taking a step towards her, Holmes nodded. "Indeed...a good evening and a belated Happy Christmas, Miss Thurlow," he greeted her.

Helen felt decidedly nervous as she extended her hand to the detective, though determined not to show it. "How do you do, Mr. Holmes? It was most kind of you to come this evening. Have you been enjoying the Christmas season?" she greeted him, inwardly wincing at her small ramble.

Taking her hand, he bowed over it and looked up from where he was positioned, his eyes gazing her as he still held her hand. "I am well, Miss Thurlow. It is my pleasure to be here. And all things considered, it has been an enjoyable Christmas thus far," he answered each of her remarks in turn before straightening slowly. "And you? I trust you and your family enjoyed the day?"

"Indeed, they did. Matthew and Andrew received more toys than they know what to do with," she replied with a sigh. "My mother spoils them, I fear. Andrew received a chemistry set, and he spent the whole day trying to make things explode. Poor Goodwin has been on tenterhooks."

Holmes smiled vaguely. "A state of existence that from my few observations appears to be his lot...all though I would've thought that Matthew with his more cerebral and introspective ways would've been more inclined towards the chemistry set."

She nodded in agreement. "As did I, Mr. Holmes. However, it was a present from an uncle and aunt on his mother's side of the family...and they have never met the twins. I believe they got them mixed up...for they gave Matthew an archery set, for which he is not so inclined...though he did try it...and we now have a nice hole in the middle of his bedroom door." She quirked an eyebrow. "It seems he neglected to listen when I mentioned it was an outdoors item."

"Ah..." he mused. "Yes, that it is, and most certainly when you are a poor shot and in possession of three cats, a hamster, and a turtle, I believe?"

Her eyes twinkling up at him, she nodded with a chuckle, feeling more relaxed by the second. "Yes...and they are both still trying to convince me that we need a hound."

"That, I can take no responsibility for. Watson's tale is most at fault in that regards," he replied, before glancing around. "I must thank you for the invitation to this event, Miss Thurlow. I must admit I have been looking forward to it."

She appeared a little surprised at that. "Indeed? Well...I am glad that you were able to come then...I know you are a very busy man."

"True, but this Foundation is a worthy one, and an eminent one with the likes of Professor Otto Emmerich amongst its Advisory Board," he responded, glancing around the room once more. "Might you be so good as to point me in his direction?" he enquired.

Helen flushed slightly, and glanced at her co-host. "I don't believe he has arrived yet, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Grufstred?"

Randolf quickly looked at her and then at Holmes and back again, as the next guest arrived by his side. "My dear, Miss Thurlow, had you not heard?" he asked her. "The professor was taken ill on his arrival in London from Heidelberg, and is fighting off the most dreadful cold and ague. He is hopeful of being able to make our board meeting next Wednesday, but is too ill to attend this evening, and sent his apologies yesterday."

Holmes stiffened noticeably where he stood. "I see..." he said slowly. "How unfortunate."

Helen's face shifted from simply surprised to one of concern as well. "No, I did not hear. How dreadful! Does he require a physician?"

"He is well attended to," Randolf assured her. "He has many friends in the medical community, being a man of science."

She nodded, though continued to look concerned, before turning back to her guest, her voice apologetic and consoling. "I do apologise, Mr. Holmes. I truly hope this will not ruin your evening."

Holmes's nod was brief, as he took a step away from her. "Thank you, Miss Thurlow," he replied, his disappointment etched momentarily into his face before resolving itself into its usual reserved geniality. "I shan't detain you from your duties any longer." And with an incline of his head, he headed like Watson and Mary up the last few steps for the main room, before stopping and gazing in at the crowd. Taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he hesitated before stepping into the throng with great reluctance, as Helen watched him go with a hint of worry, before turning back to the Grufstreds and her other guests.

Later, as the half hour approached and nearly all had arrived, Helen and the Grufstreds made for the centre of the celebrations, entering the brightly illuminated and decorated room, which was lit by two large fires in huge hearths at either end of the long stretch of highly polished dance floor, and also contained a small five piece piano and string orchestra that was currently providing lively music for both carolling and dance. Standing at the doorway as her co-hosts moved into join their guests, Helen glanced around at the festivities with a pleased smile.

Along the far side of the room lay a long buffet table attended to by footmen and maids serving both a myriad of refreshments and food, as well as doling out liberal doses of spiced mulled wine and fruit punch for all comers from two huge, ornate, silver punchbowls. The room teemed with life and laughter with both singers by the piano and dancers on the floor taking pride of place, and all were overlooked by the massive Christmas tree that was ablaze with candles and decorations, beside which back in a nook, and doing his utmost to remain unobserved, stood the distinctive and decidedly lone figure of Sherlock Holmes.

The tall man shifted while watching Watson and Mary take to the dance floor to join in a Promenade. Putting his empty glass down on a small table, he wished he had brought his syringe and cocaine, for the night so anticipated was now going to be long and deadly dull, because of the disappointment. A meeting with Professor Emmerich had long been something he'd looked forward too, and it was truly a great let down to know that he had been so close to a conversation with him. The few people who he had encountered thus far had could only be described as gushing aficionados, pleasant enough people but mind numbingly trivial in their conversation, and it had not taken him long to attempt to retreat out of sight.

However, he had not gone completely unobserved. Helen watched him as he lit a cigarette from one of the candles on the nearby tree, and could almost discern the waves of discomfort wafting from him. After talking briefly with a few people, the corner of her eye ever distracted by her one lone guest, she excused herself, and made her way in a roundabout manner over to him by way of a painfully slow round of the room, stopping to talk and listen to the society chat that came her way, and reasoning to herself that as a host, it would be the least she could do to entertain him a little.

Her suspicions as to his state and why were confirmed when she caught the barely contained look of boredom that had settled on his face. He'd only come to see the professor, she concluded. After all why would a man who shunned all public gatherings suddenly agreed to attend one and eagerly at that? Arriving at the tree, she sipped her champagne quietly not far from him, giving no sign that she had spotted him, as her eyes scanned the crowd, half loathe to interrupt his thoughts, but knowing that he needed some clear distracting.

Wondering if there was a way he could slip away silently so early in the evening without giving offence, Holmes suddenly became aware of the person not far from him. After a moment of indecision, his manners and obligation towards his hostess took over from his desire to disappear, and he inched forward and turned his head slightly in her direction. "Miss Thurlow," he greeted her with a rather flat tone, his mind searching for some bit of chit chat, as he glanced around the lively room. "Your...party seems to be going well."

"Why Mr. Holmes!" she replied as if not having seen him. "Indeed," she agreed, moving a little closer, and casting a quick smile up at him. "Many are seeming to enjoy it. Though I must confess, I've never been one for large gatherings."

"A difficult position to find yourself in when you are the head of two such charitable groups and a large international firm...not to mention a member of high society," he murmured. "Large gatherings tend to be the de facto situation."

She chuckled. "Yes, I know. But after a lifetime of solitude, all this..." she paused, and indicated the room with a slight wave of her hand, "is a little overwhelming. I would much rather be home in front of the fire with a good book." She glanced at him quickly, and after another brief pause continued, "I do apologise that the professor was not able to attend and any inconvenience this has caused you in any way. And though I fear I am a poor substitute indeed, might I stand in for him instead?"

He glanced down at his cigarette, and tossed it towards the fire, before replying, "I do not deny it is a blow. I had looked forward to meeting him while he was here in London, but it is hardly your fault that he is unable to attend tonight, Miss Thurlow. Please do not feel obligated to attend on me. You have other guests, the vast majority more lively than I, and far more in keeping with the festivities."

She shook her head, and turned to him more fully. "I do not feel the slightest bit obligated, Mr. Holmes. If I did not wish to attend you, I would not have offered. Besides...you would be doing me a service as well. I am not able to be as social as I would normally be expected to be due to my current circumstances. So since I cannot dance the night away, nor am I very interested in the games that will surely follow...you would be doing me a great favour in providing me with a higher level of conversation than who looks more fetching or who is now connected with whom." She grimaced just a little. "I'm afraid I've already had more society gossip this evening than I can take."

He regarded her in silence for a moment, gauging her words, before nodding slowly. "Of course, Miss Thurlow," he replied. "Though I cannot promise to be the best of companions. I too would rather be curled up at home with some reading matter."

She gave him a commiserating smile. "Indeed, Miss Havisham is currently plotting away in my book, and though I have read it many a time, I cannot help but hope that _this_ time Estella will not be so cruel, and Pip will become a gentleman and not get embroiled in his benefactor's mess." She sighed and shook her head wryly. "But, I fear it won't be so."

"Why not?" he asked with an inquisitive tone. "Will Miss Havisham succeed in plotting to murder this Pip?"

She blinked in surprise at his words. "Murder?" she repeated with a slight frown. "Oh no, Mr. Holmes. She doesn't want to murder him...well, perhaps destroy his and all men's hearts...but not murder." She paused, her head tilting to the side as it did whenever she grew focused on a conversation. "Have you not read Great Expectations?"

"I have not," he answered readily, "Is it a worthy read?"

Her eyes widened, even as her head bobbed adamantly. "Oh yes! Charles Dickens is a wonderful author. Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, A Tale of Two Cities...all very poignant and insightful novels. They speak a great deal of the human condition," she enthused, before quoting, "_It is a far, far better thing that I have done than I have done before...it is a far, far better resting place I go to, than I have ever known._"

His brow creased slightly. "Dickens...yes, the social rights campaigner and raconteur. I do recall he was an author." He glanced over at her. "You seem to enjoy his work, though I can't say I'm familiar with it myself."

She shook her head a little in awe at his admission. "He is one of my favourite authors...a tad on the melancholy side sometimes...but a fine storyteller. What books _do _you prefer, Mr. Holmes?" she asked with curiosity.

"Books?" Holmes replied. "Texts and treatises affecting the human condition mostly. The sciences - chemistry, mathematics, biology, Grey's Anatomy, history and geography texts, and some few on comparative theology and philosophy."

Helen nodded slowly as she took that in. "I am afraid I know little of science and anatomy...however, I have read the works of Plato, as well as many classical texts. I have always found Plato's metaphor of the cave to be rather fascinating...and the illusion that we are all watching shadow puppets on the wall rather than really seeing the world around us."

"Plato...for all his immensely impressive logic sometimes spoke out of his hat. For while we may or may not be watching the shadow puppets...the real world impacts on us just the same. Personally, I find the works of Plato's predecessors far more edifying and less bone dry," he replied rather bluntly.

"I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Holmes. He was rather hard to get through," she admitted with a chuckle. "I actually prefer the plays to ancient Greek philosophy...but in their society all things were connected. Not that they are not in ours...just more intricately so in that time." She paused to take a sip of her champagne. "What are you currently reading, Mr. Holmes?"

"A somewhat obscure history of Jacques Rumina...a groundbreaking chemist working in the fields of toxins," he answered. "It is detailed, if a little too enamoured of the particulars of his life for my liking. A book on science should be just that."

She quirked a slender brow at that. "But, if it is a history of the man...then it is bound to be about him more than his work, wouldn't you agree? Otherwise, if what you wished for was the purely scientific aspect, why not simply read a written work of his?"

"Few survive..." he lamented somewhat. "Rumina lived and worked in the 1500's, and much of his work was lost through civil strife and internecine wars." Shaking his head, he gazed over at her. "If you advertise a book on the life's work of a man, I would prefer you live up to such claims. I have no desire to speculate on what someone had for tea four hundred years previous." He pulled out his cigarette case again from his pocket. "Nor how a piece of undigested cheese might have influenced the outcome of a test for arsenic."

She bit her bottom lip to keep from releasing the laugh that threatened to burst out. "Well..." she postulated after a moment. "Perhaps...perhaps historians are interested in such findings. Sometimes people find the amusing anecdotes of how the work was reached as relevant as the actual results."

"It is not important, Miss Thurlow," he returned quite bluntly, "nor indeed is most any novel. Fictionalised lives...and events are only the shadow puppets you spoke of. Mere reflections of real life. I have no need of them when I have the real world to deal with, which is why I never touched a novel again after school. It distracts the mind..." He pulled out a cigarette, before closing the case, and returning it to his jacket pocket. "With all the flotsam of his personal life banging around in your head, how is one supposed to truly analyse and sift through results?"

She looked a little surprised at his narrow view, but recovered quickly. "The rational mind is not the only part of one's brain that needs to be exercised, for without imagination...how can one truly utilize one's whole mind? Novels...and indeed amusing stories serve this purpose. It is about balance, Mr. Holmes," she answered.

"My imagination, Miss Thurlow, is amply utilised in the pursuance of my cases, I assure you. I must entertain all possibilities, no matter how remote, and put my imagination to work as to how such scenarios come to pass. I spend many hours in such silent cogitation...but my imagination is in the here and now. Not on the pages of a novel." He turned to her a little. "Do not mistake me, Miss Thurlow. I do not wish to denigrate great authors, but I merely have no time for them...my brain cannot afford to mix fact and reality with fiction."

She sighed and shook her head at his stubbornness. "Very well...then I shall not attempt to convert you to the merits of allowing one's brain to release and take a holiday from the rigors of everyday life." She gave him a warm smile regardless, recognizing that this was one debate she was not going to win.

He inclined his head with a slight smile. "In that, you are more gracious and more subtle than the good doctor." He nodded towards his friend, who was departing the dance floor with his fiancée. "When he discovered the deliberate gaps in my knowledge, he forced me to a test to discover how little I knew in certain areas. Quantifying my ignorance as it were."

He glanced back at her. "But you know of my relaxing pursuits...of my boxing, fencing...occasional riding...and you have heard me play, Miss Thurlow. While you have your literature...I have my music. It no doubt achieves the same level of mind expansion you speak of...but does so not by filling the mind...but by clarifying it...allowing it to focus inwards on a mood or a thought and sift through it. Music, Miss Thurlow…music is the universal language. It can calm and arouse, create fervour or introspection...all without a word...truly, dear lady, it has charms to do more than merely soothe the savage breast. So you know I do allow my brain its release...and ease."

Her expression showed her agreement as soon as he mentioned music. "Indeed. I too find much comfort and joy in listening to a well played piece. In fact, I must confess to attending many a recital on those rare occasions that I was allowed a short break from my mother….usually when one of our relations came by for a visit. It can truly lift one's soul when in a black mood," she replied, almost breathing the words. "I would close my eyes and float away on the notes...the melodies of Chopin on the piano...a string quartet playing Bach...or an accompanied soloist playing Vivaldi or Mozart." Her smile turned a little lopsided. "Though, you must think me rather silly for going on so...but I cannot express how I looked forward to those."

"I think nothing of the sort, Miss Thurlow," he replied, his smile widening slightly, and his understanding writ large in his expression. "I am a great admirer of such concerts. If there is one regret I have is that, more often than not when I travel there occur in London the most enticing performances - ones I would have cheerfully stayed and enjoyed, but which, by the time I am returned and have some free time, they are over...or Watson is otherwise engaged." He regarded her thoughtfully. "Your choice in the matter must have been similarly restricted...as your financial circumstances would only afford you egress to only the free or lowest cost seats?"

Helen inclined her head in reply. "Yes...but I did not need to see them play to enjoy it. As long as I could hear it..." She sighed at the memories, and took a sip from her glass. "I suppose the restrictions on my time and monetary circumstances made me only appreciate it more."

He nodded, appreciating that too, before answering, "Still...now that you are with means, the warmth of an interior or and the feel of a good seat beneath you would no doubt help the mind's relaxation just that little bit more." The smile that was touched his lips was one of gentle joviality, as for the first time that evening, he began to truly appear at ease.

"Oh yes...and I am also, l must say, looking forward to attending an opera as soon as propriety allows. I have never been to one...and the chance to not only hear the music, but see the story unfold is most appealing. Mother says that they are indeed something to behold," she agreed, her own smile and her enthusiasm for the subject lighting her face.

"Your mother is, quite correct," he confirmed. "When staged correctly and cast adequately, there is nothing that fills the ear and eye so well as opera...though I must confess, I care less for the librettos than I do the music. But you should make all due haste to Covent Garden or the Royal."

"Then as soon as I am able, I shall," she assured him, her eyes twinkling with pleasure that she had found someone who understood her love of music.

"If you would care to listen, I would be happy to impart what knowledge I have of concerts and operatic productions that might produce a resonance of one sort or another within." He paused and gazed around the room, as if realising the company about them for the first time. "But...my manners!" he said suddenly. "I should not keep you standing here. Would you care to take a seat?" He indicated some empty chairs not far from them. "And perhaps I might fetch you a glass of mulled wine or punch to sustain you while we continue our conversation?"

"That would be most kind of you, and I would indeed appreciate any knowledge you would care pass on," she agreed, still quietly composed, but with a pleased smile on her lips.

With one hand behind his back, Holmes indicated the seats beyond with the other, and on her turn, followed her towards the chairs. Once he saw her seated, he moved briskly across the room to fetch some punch, deciding on something cool to drink as the warmth in the room had been steadily rising through out the night, and on returning, sat a little apart with her, and began a veritable A to Z of composers in their conversation while the party whirled on around them. This pattern continued through the night, only temporarily ceasing when Helen, forced to by sheer duty, had to stop to do a sweep of the room as hostess, or help to organise a game or musical event, after which she quietly returned to her seat where their conversation picked up again.

As the evening wore on, so too did the dancing, and after a particularly vigorous Gavotte, Watson led a laughing and slightly out of breath Mary from the dance floor to the refreshment table, gathering the silver ladle to begin to pour two crystal cups of the refreshingly cool fruit punch.

Accepting the proffered drink, Mary turned to take in the crowd around her, finding that she was having one of the best and most active Christmases she could ever recall experiencing, though part of her could not believe that she was in the same room, let alone dancing and conversing with so many distinguished personages. As she waited for her fiancé, her eyes froze in mid sweep of the room, widening ever so slightly as she took in the rather animated Sherlock Holmes and smiling face of her friend.

"John..." she hedged, as they moved away from the refreshment table. "I see that Helen and Mr. Holmes have put aside any perceived differences."

"Hmm?" he murmured, looking up from his cup, glad for both the breather they were taking and the soothing chill of the punch. "Oh yes..." Watson nodded slowly on seeing what she was. "How amazing," he agreed, with a shake of his head. "When we couldn't tempt him to stay with us, I was full sure Holmes was all set to sink into a morass of ill humour because his professor didn't show." He paused to take a sip of his drink. "It seems she must have caught his attention with something just before he tipped over into that mood of his." With a sigh of relief, he nodded, his mouth curling into a wry smile. "Good for her...means I shan't have a bear of a companion tonight."

She nodded silently, continuing to take in his partner's almost lively face and her new friend's nods and smiles. Indeed, there was a light in her eyes Mary could not remember seeing in her before. "Indeed...he looks...most entertained, as does she," she mused, her expression thoughtful.

Watson caught her tone and turned his eyes to her, across to the conversationalists, and then back at his fiancée again, his head gradually moving in a slow sedate shake. "My dear Mary...darling girl...do not even begin to think of it," he advised, reading her mind clearly.

Shifting her attention back to him, she saw his rather bemused if serious expression, and with a sigh nodded in agreement. "Very well...but you must admit, they do make a rather handsome couple. And I haven't seen either of them look so lively...even when Mr. Holmes was working on my case..."

Despite his better judgement, Watson looked again. "Yes...I will admit he appears animated, but she probably has him talking about chemical formulae or some such!" he asserted with a loud sigh. "And as for a handsome couple...yes, they do, but I've seen Holmes engage with many a beautiful woman and never a flicker has come of it. I have no hopes of Sherlock Holmes in that regard."

Taking a quiet sip of her punch, Mary had to admit to herself that any such hopes in making a match for her friend with her fiancé's fellow lodger were indeed...remote. However, such thoughts were tempting at the way they were speaking and the way their attention was riveted on each other. "Perhaps you're right, John," she agreed, finally turning away from the view and focusing completely on her fiancé. "I hear there is a game of charades in the other room, if you would like to take a longer break from dancing?"

Putting down his now empty glass on the table, he nodded, and extended his arm with a sheepish grin. "As much as I enjoy dancing with you, dearest Mary, I must admit I have been praying for you to say that!"

Taking his arm with a chuckle, she pointed the way to the room the game was being held, and the couple meandered off to rejoin the festivities.

* * *

The revels continued on until well past the midnight hour with Helen again only interrupting their quiet conversation for duty and decorum's sake to play the hostess and mingle a little, and Holmes only to fetch some few morsels of food from the buffet for them both, as well stopping to talk to a few admirers along the way, his mood so noticeably improved that he scarcely found them irritating in the slightest. However, finally the evening's festivities began to draw to a close and carriages were called for and coats collected as the drift away continued.

It was with some surprise that Holmes reached down and pulled on the gold sovereign on his watch chain to draw out his watch from his fob pocket and look at the time. "It seems the witching hour is upon us, Miss Thurlow," he announced, unfurling his legs and stretching them out slightly. "Time has slipped away with great alacrity...far more than I would've suspected possible at the beginning of this evening." He rose to his feet slowly, and gave her a short bow. "My thanks for providing an unexpected and most entertaining diversion tonight. I hope I have repaid it in kind by some small improvement in your ideas of which musical extravaganza would best suit?"

Ascending to her feet, she inclined her head in turn. "I am most pleased that I helped fill the gap left by Professor Emmerich in some small way. And, indeed, you have been extremely helpful and most kind for keeping me company tonight."

"Not at all...it was little enough, as I say, for your kind invitation and attention." He swept his hand towards the far side of the room and the departing throng, noting Watson and Mary talking quietly there, and falling in beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, as they walked towards them on his first stage outwards.

"Holmes..." Watson looked over at them as they approached. "We hardly saw you all night. Has our esteemed Hostess been keeping you occupied?" he inquired, casting a smile at Helen.

"In the most charming way possible," the tall man agreed with a nod. "And you? I trust, considering the amount of dancing I saw you do, you will be complaining as usual about the blisters on your feet and calling for a hot foot bath."

The doctor cleared his throat slightly with a very brief glance at Mary, before insisting, "My feet are fine, Holmes, thank you. Dancing was as ever...a pleasure." His embarrassed tone caused his friend to dip his head to his chin to hide his ever growing smirk, as Mary merely patted his arm with a soft smile on her face, not the least bit nonplussed by the detective's blunt manner.

Helen gazed at the couple and how happy and at ease they were with each other, before smiling herself. "I am gratified that you both had an enjoyable time," she interjected smoothly to her advisor.

Watson nodded, and coughed again, before replying, "Indeed we did, Miss Thurlow, of that you may rest assured. The evening was most enjoyable...even for my single-minded friend here." He inclined his head over at Holmes. "Tell me...what kept your attention so? A more faithful retelling of some of your cases? A discussion of the forces of stress and fear on the human heart and brain? Some other unsolved case sifted through?" His eyes glinted slightly at the opportunity to poke fun at his friend's interests, as he regarded him.

"Not guilty, your Honour," Holmes replied to his judge. "We talked of music, of composers...and of opera."

"_Opera?_" Watson exclaimed quietly.

"Yes, my dear fellow...opera," the other man confirmed. "Though I am sure Miss Thurlow's wit would be as well turned towards a discussion of an unsolved case in history, if her mind is as keen as you told me her eyes were." He turned his attention back to their hostess. "I understand you noticed some of my singular artwork on the wall upon your last visit."

Helen's brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "Your art?" she repeated with a mystified tone. "Do you paint as well?"

Chuckling, he shook his head. "I refer to my prowess with a hand gun, Miss Thurlow," he elaborated quietly. "The secreted fruits of which you most capably noted upon my wall, I was told."

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, as a light blush spread over her cheeks. "Oh...well..." she stammered. "It wasn't really that noticeable..."

"Indeed it wasn't," he agreed wholeheartedly. "A great deal less so than say my...filing system?" he queried, his light tone poking fun but simultaneously indicating that he had re-evaluated her comments of that afternoon. "Which makes the observation of it all that more keen and sharp eyed," he assured her.

Raising her eyes, which she had lowered again in embarrassment at the mention of his rather messy sitting room, she gazed at him with a rather evaluating expression on her face, unsure whether to thank him for the compliment or apologise for her words that afternoon once more. Finally, she just slowly nodded. "Thank you...so...they were on purpose?" she hedged.

"The bullet holes?" he asked. "Most definitely...when you next come to Baker Street on business with Watson, you can see for yourself just how deliberate."

Mary looked over at her fiancé in confusion. "Bullet holes?"

Watson gazed at her with some mild embarrassment. "Yes...um...from Holmes's...target practice," he explained in a quiet voice, like a boy caught by his Mama being lead astray by his badly behaved brother and doing something rather foolish, while Holmes quirked at eyebrow at blond woman as he watch her reaction.

Her blue eyes blinked. "Target practice...in the wall..." she repeated slowly, as if by saying it out loud would make some sense out of it. "I see...was it successful?" she inquired, hoping that he had at least hit the target, as she felt a sudden surge of sympathy for Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, I would say so wouldn't you, Watson, old man?" Holmes answered with a smirk, as the doctor shot him a look of pure discomfort, his eyes pleading that he not to be pulled into this any further in front of his fiancée.

As she glancing over at Watson, Mary's eyes met her friend's across from her, resulting in the two women sharing a look of both mystification and amusement, while Helen, for her part, barely restrained the smile that fought to appear on her lips, and turned to face her conversation partner for the night.

"I must admit to being rather curious to see your _art_, Mr. Holmes...so, I may just take you up on your offer next time I visit Baker Street," she voiced politely, her tone light and friendly.

"Please do..." he agreed with a nod, moving them all towards the door as he began to walk. "I'm rather self critical of several of the placements of the bullet holes myself, and would value an outsider's perspective. Watson is too terrified of being overheard approving of it and facing the approbation of our dear landlady." Glancing over at his fellow lodger, he sighed in amusement as Watson flushed again.

"Only because she won't say boo to you as you well know, Holmes! So who is left for her to cavil at but me!" he bemoaned, as they moved out onto the landing.

Helen bowed her head to once more hide the grin, not so much directed at the notion of him shooting up the walls, but of the camaraderie and give and take teasing between the two. "I would be pleased to offer my opinion, if you like, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes inclined his head politely at her. "I look forward to it, Miss Thurlow," he replied, giving her a small smile before they started down the stairs. "And Watson, you need only be firm with Mrs. Hudson to keep her in check," he instructed as they descended, his face perfectly straight though his eyes were shining in amusement. "Women respond to a masterful man..." He glanced at the two in his company. "Wouldn't you say, ladies?" he asked, the humour evident in his voice.

Mary and Helen exchanged another look, before gazing straight ahead, nodding silently in unison, and both appearing to be visibly trying to restrain themselves from showing any sign of amusement. "Oh yes," and "Very much so," came the replies.

"See, Watson?" the detective pointed out, patting him on the back as they reached the foyer. "A firm hand." The chuckle undercutting his voice was unmistakable, as was the pained and highly dubious expression on his friend and colleague's.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson...Miss Morstan..." came the voice of their host, as the Grufstreds approached them. "We trust you had an enjoyable time."

"Indeed, and thank you," Watson replied immediately.

"It was a wonderful party," his fiancée agreed.

Holmes glanced at Helen and nodded. "A most enjoyable night."

"Thank you once again, Doctor, for signing your novel..." Mrs. Grufstred gushed, before shyly glancing up at Holmes from her diminutive spot a full fifteen inches below him. Yet with an act worthy of the finest prestidigitator, the matronly woman suddenly produced said book from nowhere, complete with pen, taking everyone by surprise. "I don't suppose you would be so kind, Mr. Holmes?"

It was Watson's turn to contain a smirk, as he watched his friend on one of those rare occasions when he was taken unawares. Composing himself, the detective looked from the book he had little time for and accompanying pen, to the hostess, and back again, before giving a gentlemanly bow. "Of course, Madam...it would be my pleasure," he said, taking the pen much to Martha Grufstred's delight and scratching his name inside before handing it back.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes!" she squeaked. "It shall be a valued memento, I assure you."

"You are too gracious." Holmes inclined his head again, and garnered a grateful smile from her husband for his indulgence towards his warm but excitable wife.

At the butler's finger snap, a footman arrived with their outerwear, and they began to dress to head back into the night where the snow was falling heavily now. On buttoning up his coat, his scarf securely tucked in, and hat and cane in one hand, Holmes turned to Helen and held out his hand. "Miss Thurlow, thank you for a most cultivated evening. One I hardly expected. It was a pleasure to see you again."

Slipping her hand into his, she smiled warmly up at him. "You are most welcome, Mr. Holmes, and I am glad that you could come," she returned, before turning her eyes to her friend and her advisor. "That all of you could."

Holmes bowed over her hand, before releasing it, and doing the same with Mrs. Grufstred, and after undergoing another severe handshaking with her husband, he moved to the doorway to stand, as he regarded the falling snow.

Taking Helen's hand, Watson kissed it lightly. "Goodnight, Miss Thurlow...and thank you both for our evening and going out of your way to entertain my friend," he uttered quietly.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, her voice a low whisper. "It was a pleasure to do so, and on the contrary...he entertained me," she replied, before asking in a louder tone. "I shall see you at the end of the week?"

With a nod of his head, the doctor straightened. "In a word...indubitably," he agreed with a broad smile, and moved down the line to the Grufstreds to allow the two women to say their goodnights.

Stepping forward, Mary embraced her friend. "Thank you for a wonderful evening, Helen," she said with gratitude, after she pulled back a little.

Helen smiled at her with twinkling eyes. "You are most welcome, Mary. It was wonderful to see you once more. We must get together soon when your duties permit."

"Oh yes," the blond woman agreed with a nod. "I will write to you early next week."

Giving her friend arm another quick squeeze, and a nod of her auburn head, Helen released her and stepped back. "Merry Christmas," she said warmly.

Taking his fiancée's arm, Watson walked towards his friend, who was still standing and watching the drifting snow from the doorway until they joined him. Turning back, Holmes raised his black silk topper, and popped it on his head. However, on catching the grey eyes of Miss Thurlow, he gave her a small smile, and doffed his hat to her slowly, before leading his friends out into the snowy night, bound for home.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Thank you again to all who both read and/or reviewed! I cannot tell you how we love to see those emails:D Now to answer any questions. Yup, this does take place after The Sign of the Four and Hound of the Baskervilles. I spent an entire afternoon dating the canon by reading the stories and using both Baring-Gould (who wasn't very helpful) and Klinger's timelines. I'm rather satisfied with the result, so know I didn't make the choices of where the cases went lightly...I actually made myself a timeline, and got rather buggy eyes to prove it. (Snicker ) As for Miss Thurlow's passing thought on Holmes's attractiveness...well, I'm afraid it was just that...a passing thought...an observation, if you will. Is she actually attracted to him...well, you'll have to read and see. Heh! I'd tell you, but then my co-writer would gag me and throw me in the closet. Also, I want to thank everyone, who has gone and read The Forfeit Daughter as well. I usually leave comments in response in following chapters, but since that story is completed and if you would like a written response, let me know on that, and I (or my illustrious co-writer) will gladly email you. We're rather friendly folk here at AerynFire. So, enjoy Chapter Three, and hopefully I shall have Chapter Four ready mid-week. Tea and Crumpets...Aeryn (of AerynFire)**_


	4. A Recipe for Disaster

_Chapter Four: A Recipe for Disaster _

_January 26, 1889_

It was a cool crisp January afternoon. The snow that had fallen the previous day was in the process of hardening, and any slush that had accumulated due to traffic over the previous night and day was in the process of firming and solidifying into little caverns and valleys in the cobbled streets. As a result, the cab driver of the black hansom carriage was taking great care to get his charge to her destination quickly but carefully. It would not do to have one of his trusted horses injured due to over-haste.

So, it was with a sigh of relief when he pulled the reigns up and moved the carriage to the side of the busy street right in front of an innocuous black door, one of many on Baker Street. However, this one was famous, even to him, despite the rather plain numbers painted on the glass window over the door that read 221b.

"That will be a shillin' ma'm," he called down, as a rather pretty young woman dressed all in black with a black fur lined hat and coat emerged from the carriage, and looked up at him with a pair of, what he thought were, fetching deep grey eyes.

"Yes, of course," she replied, handing him the money plus some with a kind smile. "Thank you, sir."

Shaking his head and flashing her a grateful smile at her generosity, the driver tipped his hat to her, and pulled his cab back onto the street.

Helen watched him leave for a moment, inwardly a little nervous about meeting Watson again at his home, especially since it had not gone well at all the time previously. However, after her and his lodging and work partner had spoken and gotten along so amicably at the Christmas party, she had hope that this time all would proceed much more smoothly. Though inwardly, she promised herself to restrain her more frank comments.

Glancing quickly up at the window, and finding it vacant, she moved swiftly to the door and rang the bell.

It took a few moments for there to be any indication that anyone had heard her call. Silence was followed by the rather audible sound of rapidly approaching feet in a pattern that clearly indicated someone descending a stairs, and a moment later there was a hasty scrabbling sound of the latch being pulled back, until the door finally opened to reveal the extremely harassed visage of Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh!" she exclaimed on seeing who stood on the doorstep, whatever sharp words she had planned to utter dying on her lips. "Miss Thurlow! I quite forgot you were expected!" She glanced nervously over her shoulder towards the stairs and then back at her before opening the door a little wider. "I'm afraid the doctor isn't here yet...he's been delayed at his surgery." She stepped back a little, so as to allow the other woman passage. "There's been an outbreak of Influenza in the area, and he's been there since very early this morning."

Helen gazed at the older woman with an expression between concern and surprise, before finally entering the house, simply glad the out of the brisk air. "Oh my...well, perhaps I should just reschedule with him," she replied, having quickly noted the rather exasperated air around the landlady.

"No...no..." the older woman insisted, all though not with any great conviction. In fact, she appeared rather ill at ease at her presence. "The doctor did say he would be back around now...I failed to connect the reason in my mind until you rang. I'm afraid I've been rather..."

"Mrs. Hudson!" the unmistakeable booming voice of Sherlock Holmes barrelled down the stairs at them. "I said I required that fertiliser this _instant_!"

The poor woman jumped quite noticeably, her hands grasping at her apron and twisting it a little. "Right away, Mr. Holmes! I'm just with..." she went to reply before the door above slammed shut.

Helen's eyes widened, as the pieces were rather rapidly assembled in front of her. Mrs. Hudson's behaviour, her anxiety and nervousness, combined with Holmes's sudden demand and tone...it did not bode this visit well at all, she decided.

"Fertiliser? Oh my," she breathed out loud. "Is he in...um...what did Dr. Watson call it? A black mood?"

Mrs. Hudson's look was apologetic in the extreme as she nodded. "Yes...and never was there a more apt description," she confirmed with a sigh. "He's been in a near frenzy for the last three days. Poor man, he's not had a case worth his time for over six weeks now," she empathised despite his behaviour, "and he's itching badly." The older woman glanced again up the stairs. "He's exhausted all his usual avenues of relaxation, few as they are. And now, he's taking to his experiments once more. Twice in the last five days I have had to air out the rooms thoroughly due to mistakes." A rather sour expression formed on her face, as she continued, "Such smells as even Hades might balk at. And now…" She paused, her nervousness returning. "Now, this morning he announced to me that he is attempting to make an explosive...from household items!" She swallowed as the more precise reason for her extreme anxiety made itself known. "And in the mood he is in, I don't think he cares too much about whether he blows himself up in doing so."

For a brief moment, Helen considered very strongly making some excuse and leaving the house as swiftly as her feet could carry her. However, running from uncomfortable situations was simply not how she lived her life, and after again taking in the poor landlady's rather stressed state, she knew she could not abandon her to the irked lodger upstairs.

"Would it help," she asked softly, "if I took the fertiliser upstairs?"

"Oh no..." Mrs. Hudson shook her head quickly. "I could not _possibly_ ask you to, Miss Thurlow. The doctor did tell me he was irritable when you were here before, but it is nothing to what he can be like. I would not for the life of me wish to put you in an uncomfortable position."

The door above flew open, and footsteps pounded a step or two across the landing. "Mrs. Hudson! _Where_ are you?" he bellowed.

"It is quite all right," the young woman assured her. "I do not mind...and you look as though you could use an escape from..." She paused, barely refraining from wincing as the door slammed above them. "Well, from any more aggravation."

Mrs. Hudson looked at her anxiously, half afraid to let her go up there, half afraid not to, knowing she was in dire need of respite from her much beloved but highly demanding lodger. "Only if...if you are quite sure?" she hedged slowly.

Helen laid a gentle hand on the other woman's arm. "Yes, quite sure."

The older woman breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Very well. Thank you. Thank you indeed..." she almost gushed, as she led her into the kitchen area to fetch the tin of garden fertiliser she used for the small kitchen garden she maintained at the back, drawing it out from under the sink.

"But please, Miss Thurlow," she said almost with the soft pleading air of a mother as she turned back to her. "Do not take anything he says too much to heart. Mr. Holmes is a gentleman through and through...it's just that sometimes..." She paused at a cupboard, before turning with the tin in her hands back to Helen. "When he's like this, it takes such a grip of him that he doesn't really know what he's saying. It's almost like a small brainstorm goes off in his head...and he's lost inside of it," she explained, handing her the tin. "Don't judge him too harshly."

The young woman patted her hand reassuringly, as she took the needed ingredient. "I have no wish to irritate him further. I promise I will take nothing to heart," she replied, before with another soft, if ever so slightly nervous smile, she turned and headed back to the entryway. Pausing long enough to remove her gloves, and hang her hat and coat up on the peg by the door, she took a deep breath, and moved briskly up the stairs, not stopping until she was facing the door to the sitting room, and only then to knock quietly yet firmly on the wooden door.

"Don't stand on ceremony, come in! Come in!" the baritone voice barked through the wood of the door.

Arching an eyebrow at his gruff tone, she shook her head, the flicker of a thought again crossing her mind that she was rather mad to be doing this, before opening the door and moving inside, immediately glancing around for its dweller.

Holmes stood hunched over his workbench with his back to the door and oblivious to who had entered. "Here! Here!" he snapped irritably, his left hand reaching out and tapping a space beside him on the bench.

Giving him a stoically tolerant look, she moved swiftly to his side, silent but for the rustle of her skirts, and placed the tin gently on the indicated spot on the table.

"And not a moment too soon," he muttered without glancing away for one second from his measuring and mixing. "How many times must I tell you that this is a precise business? That I must maintain my concentration, and cannot be bothered with haranguing for what I need!"

"Actually, you have never told me such a thing, but I shall endeavour to remember it nevertheless...though it would help if I knew what you were attempting to do," Helen replied smoothly from where she stood next to him.

His head turned to his left to regard her, and if he was surprised at her presence not a trace of it registered on his face, his features not transforming themselves one iota from the deep frown etched into his forehead and the rather flat look in his eyes. "Oh, it's you, Miss Thurlow," he intoned in an equally flat voice, as he picked up the tin, turning his eyes back to his experiment. "I should've realised something was detaining Mrs. Hudson." Opening the tin and placing it before him, he informed her, "Watson isn't here."

"So I noticed," she returned, matching his unchanging reaction, her placid face nor cheery note in her tone not altering a jot. "However, if it is all right with you, may I wait here for him for a bit? Mrs. Hudson said he was due shortly."

"Do as you wish," he replied, continuing to work on his experiment. "Though I should inform you, I am attempting to make an explosive substance. Staying here may not be wise."

She peered down at the mixture he was tending to with an interested expression. "Indeed, so I have been informed, though you have yet to answer my question on what it is," she reminded him, her eyes taking in the different substances on the table. "Is that yellow one sulphur?"

"Yes," came the terse reply, as he took a measuring stick and scooped a heaped level of the white powdery fertiliser in the tin to add to his bowl. "Everything here has been taken from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. As to what it is? It is proof to those who would disbelieve at Scotland Yard that it is the simplest of things for anarchists and villains of all sorts to dispose with the need to purchase dynamite, and instead create their own far more potent bombs in their own lodgings." Straightening, he brushed past her, as he made for some books on his desk, before picking one up and scanning it.

She nodded slowly. "So, you are attempting to prove this by constructing one yourself," she surmised, her manner calm on the outside, though inwardly wondering if he was in his right mind to be attempting something so dangerous…and she for standing there watching him do it. Turning to regard him, she came to the conclusion that Mrs. Hudson was indeed correct. In his need to find stimulus for his mind, his mood had affected his rational thinking. Leaving would be the wisest course of action but not the kindest or the bravest.

Perhaps her presence might benefit in some manner, or perhaps she may simply be able to keep him focused enough from blowing the entire house up. She could slow him down, make him more deliberate…even if it did mean risking his ire with persistent and probably annoying questions, and as she took in his already annoyed and irked countenance, she expected that would be precisely the case.

So after a moment of watching him thumb through pages, and questioning her own sanity once again, she asked, "Do you wish any assistance?"

He glanced up at her, or rather through her, as he moved back to his bench with book in hand. "Do you know anything about nitrates?" he demanded.

Her brow furrowed, while she searched her mind for the answer, as her only knowledge on such things was from some vague remembrances of lessons from her History of English Advancements classes in school and her brothers' reports from his latest experiments as well as from his 'Book of Knowledge' that came with his chemistry set. "Are they not in gunpowder?" she inquired.

Holmes tapped the bag of fertiliser. "Yes, potassium nitrate...or saltpetre as it was known...and sulphur both. Nitrates...nitrates are the key...that is how nitro-glycerine came to be..." he murmured. "But to make it as powerful as the latter but stable as the former...how?" he asked himself, bending low over the table, as he looked down at his book. "C3 H5 N3 O9."

She blinked in confusion. "Is that a code?"

A short sharp bark of a laugh escaped him. "It is a chemical formula," he answered, putting the book down. "Three parts carbon, five parts hydrogen, three of nitrogen, and nine of oxygen...in more common parlance, say that of the kitchen, it is a recipe."

She sat down quietly on the seat opposite his across the table. "So, you are creating a recipe for nitrates? And that one was...nitro-glycerine?"

"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed, nodding vigorously, as he looked over his equipment carefully. "I shall make a small quantity, and store it somewhere cool. It is January...that should not be too hard. It sweats you know..." As he spoke, he began to organise his ingredients once more. "It dislikes warmth, and is a fascinating substance...three times as powerful as gunpowder alone." His brow was furrowed in deep concentration, as he straightened. "Perhaps the pantry," he mused, considering storage spaces.

"What is glycerine made up of?" she asked quickly, hoping to distract him from further aggravating Mrs. Hudson by invading her kitchen with something likely to vaporise it.

A long finger gestured at her, pointing straight at her face without his eyes even turning in her direction, as he shifted a few of his household tins around. "Glycerine? C3 H8 O3. You are wearing it on your face as we speak."

"I am?" she asked with mild surprise, her hand going to her cheek.

"It is used in make up," he informed her perfunctorily.

She nodded silently, as she turned her mind back to the numbers he listed. "So the carbon in nitro-glycerine comes from the glycerine, a third of the oxygen as well, but there is less hydrogen." She frowned a little at that. "So the nitro part is N3 O6...and..." she trailed off wondering how the hydrogen was suddenly diminished. "Now that doesn't make sense."

"What? Don't mumble, Miss Thurlow!" he snapped, as he referred to his book once more.

"What is the recipe for a nitrate as it stands now?" she asked, ignoring his tone.

"Nitrates are merely the salts of nitric acid," Holmes replied. "Its base is NO3, but it forms compounds with ammonia and sulphur and..." He stopped in mid explanation as his eyes finally rose to regard her from across the table, and a puzzled frown formed on his face. "Why do you want to know?"

Having been listening intently so as to memorize any helpful facts, she was startled out of her frame of mind by his out of place question. "So I can help," she answered, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. "So, you double that and get the missing bits in nitro-glycerine?" she asked, returning back to his chemistry problem. "Though I still do not understand where three of the hydrogens went."

"You create nitro-glycerine by slowly tipping glycerine into a mix of concentrated nitric and sulphuric acids," he murmured, staring at her. "The hydrogen is burned away in the chemical reaction process and extra oxygen added you wish to _help_ me?" he asked without breaking the sentence.

"Yes, it seems a fascinating experiment…if a little _dangerous_, I must admit," she agreed, the gentle suggestion floating there though her tone was light, as her eyes gazed at him unwaveringly. "And you do seem to be pondering a problem. Sometimes when I find something difficult or the solution just naggingly out of reach, I find it helpful to offer my ideas to another," she explained sincerely, before blushing slightly, and worrying if perhaps in her willingness to divert him from any disastrous outcome, she may have presumptuously overstepped her bounds. "Though of course, I am nowhere near your intellectual level and if you rather I didn't..." She rose swiftly from the chair. "I can just wait by the fire."

Startled by her willingness to help on such a project, her questions began to permeate his head along with her inquisitiveness, as he continued to watch her, and blinked slowly as the effects of the latest dosage of cocaine in his blood stream waned. For the past three days, his answer to that occurrence had been to make for his desk and syringe whenever Watson was not around to object, and let his mind expand and take on a million possibilities other than his interminable tedium.

Now though, as his mind contracted, it focused not on his boredom, but rather on her words and what it was she wished to join him in doing. "It is a dangerous operation..." he warned her slowly, the words coming like molasses, as he brushed his hands together, and noticed their discolouration.

The young woman regarded him and his change of manner a little warily, inwardly hoping she hadn't again offended him. "So you mentioned, though I am a fast learner," she replied.

The detective blinked, as listening to her talking about blithely creating an substance that could blow them both to kingdom come while she talked of 'learning quickly' suddenly brought it home to him precisely what he himself was doing.

Reaching for a cloth, Holmes began to wipe his hands. "No...thank you," he declined quietly, as he continued to scrutinize her. "I believe it wouldn't be prudent for me to continue in this environment. Nitro-glycerine is, as I say, highly unstable…too much could go wrong...though I appreciate the offer." His head shook a little at her reaction to what he had been doing, realising that her eagerness to learn was palpably genuine...and almost as insane as his. "Perhaps though, you might care to help me make a quantity of gunpowder? It is a good deal safer...completely so in fact, until encased."

"Of course, if you think I would not be in the way," she replied, blushing again and looking down, as his gaze began to feel rather penetratingly direct.

Putting down the cloth, he looked at her intrigued...the first time he had felt so in weeks. "If I thought you were in the way, Miss Thurlow, not only would I not have asked...you would not be here."

Her head rose slowly, until her eyes met his, and upon seeing no irritation or annoyance in them, relaxed a little, and allowed a tiny smile to form on her lips. "Then, I would most certainly be glad to assist you…though you will have to teach me the recipe."

"I would be more than a little surprised if I did not, Miss Thurlow," he countered, as the frown that had been permanently etched on his forehead since before she had arrived started to ease slightly.

She gave a low chuckle, her grey eyes twinkling up at his. "Though it is probably a good thing that I do learn, so as to be able to deduce if my wily younger brother suddenly decides to start creating such mixtures," she pointed out with a sigh and a shake of her auburn head. "He has already blown up four beakers, made a permanent mark on his desk, and created several noxious smells. Goodwin is nearly at his wits end."

"You have not managed to reverse the gifts then?" he asked, moving his own used items to one side.

"No," she lamented. "Though Matthew's aim _is_ improving...and Andrew is getting more methodical in his experiments. I am considering hiring instructors for both. At least then they would both become more adept at their new hobbies, and cease being so destructive. I did try switching the gifts, but alas, they both have developed tastes for them. I suppose that is a good thing too...makes them more fully rounded."

Picking up a mortar and pestle, Holmes nodded in agreement. "It is a prudent move. I have found both subjects an invaluable addition to my armoury of knowledge." Dropping sticks of charcoal from an artist's kit into the bowl, he handed it to her. "Grind these, please. Archery is an excellent form of honing one's hand-eye coordination...and a useful sport. Chemistry...well as you can see...an understanding of chemistry can reveal a great deal about the world we live in, and enhance that world in the bargain."

"Oh, I agree," she replied, grinding the charcoal into a dark powder with the pestle. "However, the archery lessons will have to wait until the climate warms, and Andrew is keen on the idea of a tutor, but has a rather busy schedule as it is. In order, to take on more lessons, he will have to put aside something else, and he is not sure if he wants to or if he does, what it will be."

Measuring out some sulphur, he was about to respond when the sound of running footsteps culminated in the door to the room bursting open and the appearance of a rather wild-eyed Watson, who looked from one to the other rapidly with a slightly panicked look on his face.

"Whatever's the matter with you, Watson?" Holmes exclaimed, arching an eyebrow at his out of breath colleague. "You act as if the Devil himself was after you."

Helen gazed at the slightly crazed man in concern. "Are you quite well, Doctor?" she added.

Swallowing, Watson composed himself on seeing nothing apparently untoward going on - no gaping holes in the room, no blazing fires...Miss Thurlow well and not huddled in a corner away from a black tempered Holmes...and most oddly of all, Holmes not in a black temper…in fact, the man appeared quite relaxed. "I was just about to ask the same of you, Miss Thurlow," Watson replied stepping into the room, as he eyed his friend with some surprise. "I apologise for being late..."

She blinked a little in surprise, before smiling genially at him. "It's quite all right, Doctor. I was just catching Mr. Holmes up on the misadventures of my brothers, while attempting to be useful."

Watson's eyes moved nervously to what they were doing, Mrs. Hudson having rapidly explained to him what his friend's endeavours had consisted of since he'd left. There was no question in his mind that Holmes had taken to his syringe as soon as he discovered that he had gone to his surgery that morning, and that this insanity about an explosive was the effect of several doses of his solution, which, as usual, had caused his inhibitions to wash away in an orgy of ideas. "Yes..." he said edgily, moving further into the room, "and what exactly is it you are both attempting to be useful at creating might one ask?"

"It was to be nitro-glycerine," Holmes replied a hair's breath later.

"Nitro-glycerine!" Watson gaped at him. "Holmes are you quite..." he began, but his friend continued apace.

"But on realising how dangerous that was after Miss Thurlow arrived…"

Watson slumped in relief, and shot a grateful smile at the young woman.

"…we are now making a quantity of gunpowder instead," the detective finished.

Watson froze and gaped at him anew, his eyes dropping to Helen's mortar and pestle. "Gunpowder?" he repeated, looking up at her.

Helen nodded serenely, not entirely understanding why the doctor looked so out of sorts. "It really is quite a fascinating process," she enthused. "I've never given much thought to chemical reactions before, but this is made from such simple elements..."

The older man stared at her, wondering if her exposure to his friend had somehow caused some temporary insanity…or worse, whether he had somehow inveigled her to join him in his narcotic fuelled delirium. Yet, there was certainly no sign of that in her eyes…nor indeed, did there appear to be much of the tell tale widening in Holmes's eyes either, and the grip of the drug, if it had been there at all, seemed to be almost gone now. Coughing slightly, he nodded, trying to keep his manner and voice light. "Yes...but it's um...well...gunpowder," he reminded her.

"And completely safe," Holmes interjected. "As long as we don't wrap it up too tightly...you should know that, Watson," he admonished. "You being an ex-army man."

Watson stared back at him, amazed at the obvious defrosting of his temperament. "Well, yes..." he agreed with a slow nod, glancing back at their visitor and the change she had apparently evinced in him, "but still, Holmes...gunpowder...are you hatching a plot?"

Helen quirked an eyebrow at that, her face appearing distinctly amused. "Is this the right consistency, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, showing him the bowl.

Holmes peered over and in. "A little finer if you please, Miss Thurlow," he requested, and with a nod of her head, she pulled the bowl back towards her, and proceeded to continue grinding. "And no, Watson..." he continued, ignoring the flabbergasted look on his friend's face as he watched them calmly work on something that might as well have been a cake recipe. "My plot is only to prove to Lestrade and his friends that anyone can concoct an effective explosive at home...the tailing of gunrunners is not always necessary."

Watson nodded dumbly in reply, and slumped into his chair, as he watching them nonplussed.

Holmes regarded him for a moment, a smile flickering around his mouth. "But...I forget...you are here on business with the doctor, Miss Thurlow. As much as I am loathe to lose such an efficient lab assistant, I should not keep you from your business further."

After several more deep turns, Helen gazed down at the powder with an evaluating gaze, her eyes narrowing as she attempted to judge the consistency of the powder. "Do you think this is fine enough?" she enquired, glancing over at Holmes before blinking as his words finally penetrated her brain. "Oh yes...indeed. Dr. Watson, do you mind horribly if I finish up here first? I do hate to leave a job half done."

Watson tried very hard not to stare at them both once more, and stood up slowly. "No...of course not...please..." he responded, completely bewildered in thought and tone, as he wandered away to sit by the fire. "I'll...just relax for a bit."

"You do that, Watson...it's been a hard couple of days for you," Holmes said without a trace of irony, "working hard on your outbreak of Influenza." Leaning towards the young woman, he picked up the small tin of fertiliser again, this time adding a significant amount of the potassium nitrate into a bowl. "Yes..." he told her, glancing up at her as he did so, "that will do very nicely, indeed."

They finished the gunpowder 'plot' fairly rapidly with Holmes showing Helen the exact quantities of sulphur, potassium nitrate, and charcoal required...and afterwards allowing her to light the small pile of the mixture which puffed into the air harmlessly like a magician's vaporous cloud.

Her eyes widened with delight, though she jumped a little at the loud cracking sound, causing her cheeks to blush slightly, as she turned to Holmes with a wide smile, the thrill of having performed a successful experiment evident in her face and demeanour.

Nodding, he gave her a small, indulgent smile, pleased with the effectiveness and burn time of the powder. "Thank you, Miss Thurlow. Your aid was most advantageous."

She shook her head. "Oh no, Mr. Holmes. Thank you. It was a most informative lesson, and your tolerance was admirable. I never realized how satisfying chemistry was before. Now, I understand Andrew's growing fondness for it," she replied.

"Then that in itself is worth the experiment...to foster a love of science and knowledge is the greatest result I could've hoped for," he returned with an amicable incline his head. "Now...I shall no longer keep you from your business with my colleague, and shall endeavour to keep silent as I tidy up."

Watson, from where he sat, could hardly keep from surveying the exchange without shaking his head. Where was the snappish, brooding, barking Holmes of the last few nights and this morning? And, for that matter, the eminently sensible woman he had thought he knew quite well?

"Of course," she replied with a jovial and friendly smile at the detective, before turning and moving to sit near the doctor. "I apologise for keeping you waiting, Dr. Watson. Shall we?"

"Yes...yes of course..." he stuttered, rising out of his chair as she approached him.

Holmes was as a good as his word, finishing his work silently and diligently, even favouring an equally bemused Mrs. Hudson with a small smile and taking a cup of tea when she came to tentatively provide the doctor and their visitor with some tea and biscuits while they talked.

The conversation between Watson and Helen lasted an hour or so, dealing with previous dilemmas and problems and their outcomes and possible new ones, until Mrs. Hudson returned and stepped into the room once more.

"Excuse me," she said quietly. "Miss Thurlow?"

Helen looked up with surprise, and turned her head to the landlady. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" she asked with curiosity.

"I'm sorry for disturbing your talk with the doctor...but there is a lady downstairs, very soft spoken, asking after you," the older woman informed her, as both men's eyes turned to their guest.

A light frown of confusion crossed her face, before it rapidly cleared and she smiled. "Oh yes," she breathed, her eyes moving to the clock on the mantle and taking in the time. "Is it that late already?" She rose to her feet, and nodded to the other woman.

"Would you please let my mother know I shall be right down?"

Holmes and Watson rose at once. "Your mother?" the detective repeated, and turned to his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, please invite Mrs. Thurlow up." His eyes were alight with curiosity, having not seen the woman since the day of her former husband's funeral and the gradual breakthrough in her own condition.

Watson looked over at Helen. "Was today her appointment with Dr. Von Brummel at the Institute?" he enquired with surprise.

She nodded slightly. "Yes, but it was only a follow up, so that she took the opportunity to visit with a cousin of hers as well. I was to meet her here, so that we could take the train home together."

Holmes moved away from his workbench, and straightened his coat, moving to his chair to await the new arrival that Mrs. Hudson had gone to fetch. "I confess, Miss Thurlow, that I am most keen to make your mother's acquaintance again," he told her, as they heard footfalls on the stairs. "I am eager to see how she has progressed since last I saw her."

A moment later, the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson ushered their latest guest in. A woman of rather average height and also attired in a dress that showed her to be in a state of deepest mourning entered the room, her amber eyes taking in the environs with a keen curiosity and interest, though if somewhat dreamily at the same time. If she was aware that she was the focus of everyone's attention, she did not show it. Instead, she smiled serenely at her daughter and quirked a rather amused eyebrow at her.

"I apologise if I'm a bit early, Helen, but my appointment proceeded more quickly than I thought," she told her, her voice soft and melodic, before turning her attention to the man next to her. "Dr. Watson, it is good to see you again," she greeted with a gentle smile, before catching sight of the detective. "Mr. Holmes." She moved gracefully over to him, and held out her hand. "It is a pleasure to finally make your formal acquaintance."

He crossed the space between them to meet her. "And yours, Madam. It is a pleasure I have long looked forward to." Taking her hand with a bow, he regarded her face with keen precision, taking in the clear thought and unclouded intelligence and softness he saw there. "You are most welcome. Please..." he invited with a gesture of his hand, "pray be seated.

She smiled, and crossed over to the couch, as her daughter moved to her side, and sat next to her. "And how are you faring, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired, though her eyes and expression showed that she already had deduced the answer.

"I am...fair to middling, Mrs. Thurlow," he admitted, seating himself, and leaning back into his chair. "Life has been tedious this past while without work to occupy it. But you...you are looking quite well," he asserted meaningfully.

The older woman nodded. "I am doing better," she replied with quiet dignity. "I still have my moments, but they grow ever fewer. Thanks to our kind doctor and his colleagues, of course." She inclined her head at the older man with a grateful smile on her lips, her daughter's expression mirroring her own.

Watson shook his head slowly. "Indeed not, Mrs. Thurlow," he demurred. "The lion's share of your thoughts in that regard should go to yourself...for it was you and you alone who took those steps. I merely guided them towards those who could help you along the way, like Dr. Von Burmmel."

"Indeed..." Holmes agreed, "the change is most remarkable, Mrs. Thurlow. You have travelled a great distance back to your family."

Her eyes dipped a little, as her hand took her daughter's. "I am very grateful to my family," she said softly, before her gaze again rose to meet his. "Though I believe they are all thankful I am now no longer speaking in rhymes." The corners of her mouth tugged upwards in a light smile. "I hear it can be rather frustrating to have to interpret such statements."

Helen patted the matron's hand. "No, Mother. I believe we understood you just fine," she assured her.

Alice turned her head, and gave her daughter an affectionate look. "Yes, well, you were always more perceptive than the rest," she pointed out, giving Helen's hand a squeeze, before adding with a light teasing tone, "But alas, the boys and I shall be without our guiding star in a few days."

"Oh? How so?" Holmes enquired, as Watson reached for the teapot Mrs. Hudson had left and silently offered the women some, his eyes just as intrigued by this piece of information.

The older woman looked rather surprised neither man knew of what she spoke. "Yes, thank you, Doctor," she replied to the question of tea, before asking her daughter, "Helen, dear, have you not told them of your forthcoming trip?"

The young woman flushed slightly, for it had quite slipped her mind given the afternoon's experiments in gunpowder. However, taking in the inquiring glances, she swallowed, and explained, "An old friend, Lady Margaret Sotherby, has kindly invited me to accompany her to a hunt in a week's time, as her husband, Sir Nicholas, has prior commitments he can not change. I am not one for the sport, but Lady Margaret has been a dear friend of mine since we were six, and I must admit to being eager at the chance to relax and spend some time with her."

Alice smiled indulgently, and sipped on the tea Watson had just provided her with. "Yes, Helen and little Maggie were rather inseparable growing up. We had a rather hard time keeping track of them however, until we learned to simply look up when in the garden," she reminisced, causing Helen's cheeks to turn a deep shade of crimson, as she coughed lightly into her hand.

Holmes turned an amused glance in her direction at the idea of the two girls climbing trees, as his friend chuckled aloud. "I seem to remember your father making mention of your fondness for trees," the detective recalled.

"Yes...well..." the young woman stammered. "One can get quite the view of one's environment when up high..."

"Yes...but your father and I had quite the time removing the pieces of the trees from your hair and clothes, dear," her mother reminded her, before turning back to the two men. "When she was young, our daughter refused to keep her hair up in any way, and was always coming home with pieces of leaves, branches, and bark stuck in there."

Her daughter's cheeks were slowly growing an ever brighter shade of red, at her mother's voiced remembrances. "Yes...um...Mother, we should really go if we are to make our train," she mumbled.

Holmes, however, was not so quickly dissuaded, his eyes quite firmly upon the elder Thurlow the entire time she was recollecting times past. Leaning forward, he peered keenly at Alice. "Your pardon, ma'am..." he said quietly but directly, his eyes alert with curiosity, "but I must ask. It does not distress you now...to reminisce on such times? To think on your husband?"

The older woman merely cocked her head a little to the side, her amber gaze washing over his face, before allowing her eyes to meet his, giving him the odd feeling as though she wasn't so much looking at him as into him. "Why should it?" she replied, her soft voice trickling over him. "We have made our peace...and I was buried in the dark part of our past for too long. He may be gone from the physical world, but he is here with me." She placed a hand on her chest, her face a picture of tranquillity, before she rose gracefully to her feet. "I have lived far too long trapped in the past, Mr. Holmes. When I think of it, I choose to remember the better times, but mostly, my mind is to the future." Her words were both explanatory and advising. "And now," she finished as her daughter followed her prompt, "we should depart if we are to make our train."

Both men stood as the ladies did, and Watson smiled at them both before turning to Helen as they began to move slowly towards the door. "May I ask which hunt is it you're attending, Miss Thurlow? I've a mild interest in following the hunting season, perhaps I might have heard of it?"

"It is the Lucifer Hunt," she replied. "It is hosted, I believe, by Viscount Maxwell Lynley, an old friend of Lady Margaret's late father."

Watson's eyes widened a little in recognition. "Indeed! Well that is an adventure! I hear it is one of the most sought after invitations, a tremendous ride, and the Hunt Ball after is quite famed! His estate is in Somerset is it not?"

She nodded with a rather enthusiastic expression. "Yes, and for the most part a very beautiful place," she replied. "Though, of course, I will not be participating in the hunt itself, I am also looking forward to attending the Ball...and it is not often, that you will hear me say that...especially since circumstances have placed my dance card on hold."

Holmes opened the door for the ladies. "Forgive me...but my mind is not taken up with such things as hunts and Balls but…the Lucifer Hunt?" he enquired. "It is a rather ominous name, is it not?"

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes," she agreed. "And I must admit to looking into that myself, for it is a rather portentous name. The hunt is named, if I remember rightly, because in the hills and valleys on the Viscount's Estate, there is a particularly dangerous and dense stretch of rocky woodland called 'Lucifer's Playground' through which only the most experienced of riders go." She gave him a wry smile. "I do not enjoy riding that much, but if I were to...I think the name alone would have me shying away."

"Most certainly," the detective agreed wholeheartedly. "Nonetheless enjoy your stay. Somerset is a fine part of the world. And thank you again for your aid today," he added, inclining his head in gratitude, a certain double meaning evident in his words.

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Holmes," she replied, extending a hand to him with a soft smile and nod.

Taking it, he bowed over it respectfully, before turning to do the same with her mother. "Mrs. Thurlow."

The older woman had been watching the interplay between the two with mild interest, her eyes taking in everything but revealing nothing. "It was good to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes," she replied. "I look forward to seeing you again."

"Madam," he said with a second bow, before releasing her hand to let them go.

After they departed, Watson closed the door with a smile, and watched Holmes move to the mantel to retrieve his clay pipe and pack it carefully with his blended tobacco. "It is good to see their lives taking such a positive path, is it not?" he asked, as he walked back to the couch to sit down. "It goes to show you how what we do has repercussions far beyond our investigations. On ourselves as well as on our clients." Smiling over at his friend, he slipped his hands into his pockets, watching him closely as he sank down into the familiar cushions, and marvelling again how Holmes's entire demeanour was more relaxed than he had seen it since the Christmas festivities. "I am pleased that, for once, we can play a part in people's lives beyond murder and mayhem and they in ours. I think it does us good."

Striking a match, Holmes smirked a little at his colleague's philosophical nature as he set his tobacco aflame. "Perhaps," he acquiesced with a nod. "It has certainly benefited you to the tune of one fiancée," he pointed out, to which Watson chuckled in agreement.

"But be careful who you wish us on, my dear fellow," the detective continued. "Remember, murder and mayhem _are_ our stock in trade. We follow it, and it follows us…" Lowering himself down into his favourite chair by the fire, he drew on his pipe slowly. "And in turn, it is almost inevitable that it will touch those we choose to keep close."

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Again a huge thank you to all have read and/or reviewed! We love hearing from you, and your kind and insightful comments really make our days brighter. Especially mine, as I have been slaving hard over my final portfolio this week so that I can graduate this May. As a result, and because we want to get this next bit perfect, the next chapter will not be up for perhaps a week. We both apologise for this, but it cannot be helped. Mysteries are tricky things, and we want to ensure there are zero plot holes before we roll it out to you fine folk (that and I won't be done with this portfolio till Thursday…blech). Thank you for your patience in this, it is very appreciated. **_

_**So take care, and see you all next week for our three chapter arc within our tale of The Lucifer Hunt. Tea and scones. Aeryn**_


	5. The Lucifer Hunt Part One

_ **Authors' Note (in brief): Just a quick note before we begin to remind all that we are switching perspectives for the next three chapters, as they are a Watson voiced mystery. :D Okay...more at the end...  
**_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter Five: The Lucifer Hunt – Part One_

**_Extracted from the Private Memoirs of J.Watson, M.D._**

_London, 1901_

_During the course of my long and, I hope, fruitful association with the remarkable consulting detective and man who is my colleague and closest friend, there have been a great many events that I have not yet transcribed and offered for public consumption. _

_The vast preponderance of these omissions can be, quite simply, attributed to a singular lack of time on my part. My work with Holmes, coupled with the running of my own practice, has not always afforded sufficient occasion for literary pursuits, nor indeed have those periods of married life that I have enjoyed. For what wife, as good hearted, understanding, and long suffering as she may be, could sit easily by while her husband plays both doctor and detective, working and traipsing around the country and beyond, only to find him finally returned to her in order to spend his free time at the writing desk?_

_No, most certainly a paucity of time has been the largest obstacle to my work as a chronicler but not, I must confess, the only one. _

_For there have been cases that Holmes and I have agreed I should not write of. Cases of such unspeakable evil and horror that to submit them to the public domain could, we feel, do nothing but cause great distress and harm to the society we live in. Still others I have written of, but for good or ill have been forced to withhold from publication due to the application of outside pressure._

_And finally there are those that by particular request of my partner I have never referred to beyond the private and personal memoirs that you now peruse - the memoirs I have crafted precisely to contain the cases that Holmes strongly feels have aspects in them of which the wider world has no business knowing. _

_But while the wider world must remain ignorant, to our minds there is a small and highly exclusive audience who deserves to know of these events, holding as these pages do information of particular import to them. In my opinion, it would be a shame indeed if records such as these should not be passed on to them, for a new generation should always know as much as it can about the one that preceded it. _

_The retelling of these cases as they arise, therefore, is dedicated to that audience, and to the dear personage whose appearance within them is their common thread._

_

* * *

_

The true beginning of the incidents archived in these memoirs occurs some five months before I start my narration of the events that unfolded on the Lynley Estate in Exmoor in February of 1889. For they truthfully begin with a tragic case that is numbered amongst those I cannot publish due to external pressures, but which is completed and safely stored amongst other such works in my private safe under the case entitled _"The Forfeit Daughter."_

It was this case that first introduced us to a lady who, unbeknownst to both Holmes and myself, would come to have a significant impact on both our lives.

Following the resolution in August of 1888 of this case, Miss Helen Thurlow, an unmarried lady of twenty and five who had impressed both Holmes and I with her fortitude, poise, and resilience under the most trying of circumstances, and now an heiress of no little fortune, moved to the outskirts of St. Albans in Hertfordshire. In doing so, she took with her her two young half-brothers, to whom she was now guardian, as well as her mother, a gentlewoman of good family currently in recovery from a longstanding malady of the mind that is now referred to as depression, the family taking up residence at The Twin Birches, the manor home left to them by her late father.

During the course of the next few months, thanks to my continued association with her as a consultant physician to her mother, Mrs. Alice Thurlow, as well as through the honoured trust invested in me by the newly wealthy Miss Thurlow with regards to worldly advice, I, and by extension Holmes, had the rare experience of a continued acquaintance with a person concerned with one of our cases.

On many of these occasions, I was accompanied by Miss Mary Morstan, who was only my fiancée at that time, as well as being one of the few others we had prolonged contact with following a case, and together, we met with Miss Thurlow several times, the result of which being my Mary and Miss Thurlow rapidly becoming the fastest and most devoted of friends. Holmes too, though not meeting with her as frequently as Mary and I, conversed with her on several occasions both at Baker Street when she came to visit me or at those rare social events into which I was able to wrangle him into attending.

During the course of these few encounters, both my fiancée and I noted that Miss Thurlow had, over the course of time, been accorded by Holmes not only the toleration of her prolonged presence around him but the occasional private expression of approval at her level of intellect, uncommon and remarkable honours both, especially for a person of her gender.

While my fiancée was immediately given, as women often are, to thoughts erring towards romance and the making of a match, I, for my part, cautioned her greatly, and warned that as much as I would wish to see Holmes develop such a human attachment, the man showed no signs of any proclivity towards romance with any woman, never mind her dear friend.

However, Mary would not be so easily dissuaded, her earnest desire to see Holmes find comfort in something other than the sterility of work admirable but farfetched in my view. Still, the encounters among Miss Thurlow, Holmes, and I continued at the rate of at least two a month when she came to London on business and would drop by for her customary chat with me.

It was during the course of one of these chats that she revealed to us that she was, though still in the period of deepest mourning for her father, to accept the invitation of Lady Margaret Sotherby, one of her dearest childhood friends, to accompany her in the absence of her husband to the estate of Viscount Maxwell Lynley in Exmoor, Somerset for the famed Lucifer Hunt and the Hunt Ball that followed it.

Needless to say, the unusual name immediately intrigued Holmes, who had heard of neither hunt nor ball, not being an aficionado in anyway of either fox hunting or dances.

Miss Thurlow explained to him, having made enquiries herself about it, that the hunt was so named because in the hills and valleys of Exmoor on the Viscount's Estate, there was a particularly dangerous and dense stretch of rocky woodland called 'Lucifer's Playground' through which only the most experienced of riders or those seeking to earn their hunt collar would go.

Though she herself would not be riding, she thought it would be, at the very least, a unique spectacle as the hunt was widely famed, and was greatly looking forward to spending time with her old friend and attending the lavish ball, as she had not been present at a social event since Christmas in keeping with the restrictions she was under whilst still in mourning.

In any event, we wished her well of it, and said our goodbyes as she made her way home again to St. Albans.

It was with some surprise then that on a dreary Friday morning in late February, the skies outside leaden grey and oppressive as we lazed by the fire after breakfast discussing my upcoming nuptials and Holmes's duties as my best man, that Mrs. Hudson arrived to collect our breakfast dishes, and carrying a newly delivered telegram to me from the lady in question.

My surprise obviously registered sufficiently upon my features for Holmes, who was quietly packing his clay pipe with his shag tobacco, to comment upon it, querying what was could possibly be contained within the small, yellow envelope to cause me such a reaction.

"It's Miss Thurlow, Holmes," said I in response. "She has asked me to intercede with you in the hope that you might travel to the Lynley Estate in Exmoor to join her in a matter of some urgency."

With a strike of his match, Holmes lit his pipe. "Indeed?" he intoned quite calmly, drawing upon the pipe in an attempt to coax his tobacco to life, though his eyes remained firmly fixed upon me. "Is she in difficulty?"

"No," I replied with a shake of my head and no little relief, as I read on, fleshing out the typically sparse, urgent wording of the telegram as best I could. "She is asking not on behalf of herself but on the part of the Viscount who knows she is acquainted with us. Apparently there was a theft last night," I glanced up from the wire to him, "of some of the Dowager Duchess of Monmouth's jewels."

Holmes slid forward in his seat; while he had no knowledge of hunts and society balls, he was fully aware of all the most prominent collections of jewellery in the country, natural targets for criminal minds as they were, and the Duchess of Monmouth's collection was amongst the most celebrated.

Pursing his lips around his pipe, my friend's look turned thoughtful, before he sat back slowly. "The local constabulary will no doubt pursue the matter vigorously."

"Perhaps," I said, somewhat perturbed by his relaxed attitude, "but Miss Thurlow intimates that there are some complexities involved. Though," I frowned as I glanced over the telegram once more, "she does not say what they are."

For his part, Holmes merely stretched out his long legs, and puffed silently on his pipe.

"Holmes!" I cried out after a full minute of his silence. "Surely you cannot mean to ignore her request? Whatever about the validity or interest of the case for you, it is clear she has been pressed to this by her host, the Viscount. We cannot embarrass Miss Thurlow by failing to respond. Think how foolish it would make her look!"

My friend's eyes turned slowly in my direction, an amused countenance wreathing his face as he observed my agitation. "My dear Watson…" he voiced with a chuckle, "do you see so little of the gallant in me that I would leave a lady, especially one whose acquaintance with us has deepened, in so precarious a position?" On seeing my confusion and quizzical expression as to his actions, he merely smiled and explained, "I was simply trying to decide which gentleman's outfitters could best provide me with a comfortable new pair of gaiters without delaying our journey to Paddington to catch the train to Taunton, which if memory serves…" he paused, glancing over at the clock, "departs at eleven fifteen."

Rising to his feet, he emptied his pipe into the fire and gazed at me. "I am dreadfully in need of a new pair of gaiters, especially with the weather and terrain that we can expect. But as we must change at Taunton for Barnstaple and from there travel to the Lynley Estate, in order for us to make good time we should be delayed as little as possible, don't you agree?"

I nodded mutely, stunned that he had the times and route so readily to hand.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed at my silent agreement, striding towards his room to pack. "Then I believe Charles Baker & Company will be our best bet en route to the station."

"Holmes…" I began, rising from my seat to quiz him as to his knowledge.

"The Duchess of Monmouth's attendance at the hunt was reported some days ago in the papers, Watson," he answered before the question was even out of my mouth. "I always keep track of the movement of great collections of jewellery…" There was a pause before, calling back to me from his room, he added, "And that of friends."

* * *

So after packing quickly, and asking Mrs. Hudson to be so good as to send a return telegram to inform Miss Thurlow of our travelling on the eleven fifteen train, we arrived at Paddington with a new pair of gaiters safely packed away in Holmes's bag. 

The journey to the South West coast was not an unattractive one, the landscape in that part of the world always soothing to the soul. This I have found especially so in the counties of Devon and Somerset, the countryside of the latter having a particular timeless quality that reminds one of how people have worked and lived upon the land for countless generations.

The weather improved noticeably upon our travels, and by the time we had switched at Taunton for Barnstaple, the clouds had cleared from the skies. While it remained a cool day, the sun illuminated all around us, and all though we were bound for a case, I found my spirits quite lifted by the peaceful beauty of the rolling fields, hills, and forests.

It was a nineteen mile journey, Holmes informed me, from Barnstaple to Lynton and Lynmouth at the North West tip of Exmoor upon the coast, and Viscount Lynley's home lay some three miles closer inland, though his vast estate swept right up to the sea. With some distance to go yet after we disembarked at Barnstaple, it was with some relief that we found the Viscount had provided transportation for us the rest of the way in the form of a large and well appointed dog cart.

My relief however turned to bemusement when the ruddy cheeked, rather wild haired man of middle years in a patched up groundskeepers suit, who had arrived with the dog cart, approached us to verify our identities. On doing so, he spat upon the ground nearby, as his mouth was packed with chewing tobacco, while silently tugging at his forelock, and then without a by your leave, he grabbed and unceremoniously dumped our bags into the cart, before climbing back up and into the driver's seat, staring at us expectantly until we clambered aboard.

Holmes, needless to say, was vastly impressed.

Not overly concerned with niceties or social standing, the man whose name we discerned after some translation to be 'Cuddy' was, however, blessed with the thickest and most impenetrable Somerset accent I had ever encountered in my life. He was made no easier to understand by that wad of tobacco perpetually located in his cheek, the juice of which he expectorated freely and with remarkably accuracy at several targets along the road. More often then not on the course of this final leg of our journey, it took me several attempts to decipher precisely what it was he was saying, if I managed it at all.

Holmes, naturally, seemed to have no such difficulty, as his ear for accents, which he used to great advantage in his disguises, was well honed, and he seemed to take some great amusement in my perpetually confused reactions to our talkative guide's utterances.

While he undertook some translation for me over the course of the hour or so of our journey, there inevitably came a point where my friend began to quiz the man on the events of the last few days. With his mind focused only on the collection of facts, all other concerns were secondary and the translation abruptly ceased, so while receiving long and involved answers to his questions, I was privy to understanding only less than half of what was said. The most I could distinguish was that he was absolutely adamant and vociferous on the fact that he was certain that the man accused of the theft of the Duchess's jewels, though I could not make out who that might be, was innocent.

While he and Holmes conversed at length, I contented myself with taking in the surrounding scenery once again, and discovered that while Somerset itself was a county of notable beauty and serenity, the area of Exmoor was one of quite breathtaking almost mystical loveliness, and nowhere more so then that area that marked the estate of Viscount Maxwell Hector Alfred George Lynley.

As the sun began its descent on this short February day, its light became increasingly golden in colour, as Somerset sunsets were famed to do, spreading an ethereal glow across the world, and it came as no surprise to me then in that almost empyrean radiance, that it was to here that many modern minds turned when thinking on the tales of Arthur and his Round Table that had so caught the nation's imagination these past years. For here was the kind of landscape to inspire a man to dwell on the wonders of heaven and earth, to love his land, and to inspire him to make it great.

After a time, we crested a long incline to the top of a ridge of hills, causing me to inhale at the sight laid out before me from on high. Virtually all of Exmoor was spread around us bathed in the honeyed sun and clean air. Green field farms and heather clad moors lay alongside ancient forests, backed by rolling hills which dived into deep valleys cut through by sparkling rivers. The land was speckled here and there across the wide expanse by pretty villages, and beyond, in the distance, lay the dramatic cut of the coastline, the sea sparkling azure even in the cold February sun.

Off to our right, moving up from one of the deep cut valleys a herd of Exmoor ponies wandered to higher ground, and in the distance, I could see a group of red deer grazing freely by a copse of trees. Cuddy, our driver, stopped the horse at my drawing of breath and held us there, gazing around himself before turning his eyes to me.

"Aarr, Docker," he addressed me with an approving nod at my reaction. "Dang I if it don't allus send a bibber down I back 'n all come dimpsey. Puts a gurt big dollop 'n yer drawt, don't it?"

I opened my mouth to respond, instinctively guessing what he meant, but glanced at Holmes for aid just in case.

"Always sends a shiver down my back at half light, and puts a lump in your throat," he told me with a small smile, as even his eyes, normally far more appreciative of the city, enjoyed the spectacle. I nodded slowly, before returning my attention to the scenery.

"Yes indeed, Mr. Cuddy," I replied. "It most certainly does send a _bibber _down my back."

Chuckling heartily, the man clucked the horses onwards. "Twoant be long nah, genlmen. The maisters home is jis oer yonder."

True to his word, the ancient home that was the seat of the Lynley family hove into view as he moved the horse along the ridge. The thirty acres or so of woodland that lay so close to it below and herby obscuring it from our sight, shifted in our viewpoint as we moved, revealing us the great serpentine lake that lay before the massive stately home and its beautifully landscaped gardens designed by the inimitable Lancelot 'Capability' Brown.

Pendragon House, as it was known, was massive and Georgian in style, having been rebuilt from the Tudor in the late 1700's. Cuddy, via Holmes, informed me that its three storied granite grandeur boasted rooms for seventy guests, servant quarters, two ballrooms, music rooms, games rooms, drawing rooms, and a long gallery full of an acclaimed art collection, as well as an extensive library. There were also exceptionally large stables and quarters for the hounds, and, all told, everything that the plentiful guests and riders of the hunt could want.

"And the hunt?" I asked. "What route does it take?"

"Aar…whirr be she go vrom?" Our driver nodded, repeating the question to himself and pursing his lips, before driving the horse further along the road that transversed the ridge of hills until we could see its end. "Thur!" he pointed out.

Following his finger, we watched as he pointed towards the stable grounds at the back of the house, which we could now see from our vantage point, before moving it through the beautiful parkland for some distance until it grew closer to the ridge we were on and out into more open country and fields, rounding the ridge to our right and down into another deep valley below.

My eyes, and that of Holmes, stopped at precisely the same point as they fell upon what was the most incongruous of sights amidst all the surrounding beauty. Something our driver was quick to note. The tobacco juice that struck a marker did so this time with a tinge of viciousness. "Aah…" he said quietly, "thur be a turbul accursed place 'n no mistake."

Looking down, both I and my friend took in the central part of the valley below, a stretch of wood that ran three quarters of the half mile length of the sharp valley, but unlike the woodland we had passed and could see still around us, this forestry bore no resemblance at all to the great oak woods.

Instead, the densely packed trees of many varieties seemed gnarled and horribly twisted, growing in on top of each other with their branches intertwined to such an extent that even without the full flush of foliage, they appeared to form a dense impenetrable canopy above the ground. That ground, all around and surely within, was made up of brambles, jagged granite rocks, and black earth so dark it looked almost scorched in nature. The uneasy picture was added to by the sight of buzzards soaring overhead circling, as they sensed carrion below. The shiver that went through me this time was not a pleasant one.

"Lucifer's Playground, I presume," Holmes stated, leaning over to take a closer look.

"It's like God himself has blasted the earth," I murmured, still staring at the dark scar of land that ran through the otherwise verdant valley.

"And it's through this the riders will go when the hunt passes?" my friend asked, his eyes wandering the place that was as fey in appearance as the rest of the land was fair.

"Foxes do oftern run thur when chased, but only tha hounds, huntsman 'n those seekin' ter garn therselves a hunt collar follerin," Cuddy replied with a frown. "Or those puggle 'eaded or rampin ernuff ter show orf. Others'll hed around."

"Puggle 'eaded or rampin?" I inquired, turning back to him.

"Aar, thees know, Docker," his brow creased as he tried to explain, "those as cidered up…or…tetched!"

"Ah, drunk or insane," I agreed with a smile and chuckle, and received a yellowish toothy grin in reply as Cuddy reached into his age shined coat and pulled out a tin which he opened and offered to me.

"'Baccy?" he asked.

I gazed at the shag tobacco I was more normally used to seeing fill Holmes's pipes, and shook my head. "No, Cuddy, but thank you all the same."

"Um does say thik place is Hag-rod, fuller hunky punks, gallybeggars, and ghostisiz. It's fuddled the noggin o manys the rider. Manys come a cropper thur." He popped some more of the tobacco into his mouth, while I, utterly stumped by his utterances, turned my eyes to Holmes, who glanced at me with an understanding smile.

"They say the place is bewitched," he translated quietly. "Full of will o' the wisps, hobgoblins, and ghosts. It's confused many the rider and quite a few have come to grief." His volume grew as he sat up. "Sounds fascinating, Cuddy."

"Aar…well…" The driver nodded, less than convinced of such a description as he picked up the reins. "Yer skews I, genlmen, but ifee doan mine I gotster getz yiz ter Pendragon. Light's fading and Maister'll be speckin yiz."

With another cluck of his tongue, we drove off again, this time moving down the ridge to the lower ground that swept majestically towards Pendragon House. The magnificent landscape was even more admirable as we grew closer and travelled over it during the last ten minutes of our journey. Closing on the house itself and moving past the man-made lake, Holmes tapped me on the shoulder and nodded towards the expanse of lawn that swept up from the waters to the front of the great house.

Following his gaze, my eyes fell on a lone figure, a woman dressed in black, a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her head bowed over a book as she walked slowly back towards the stately home, her auburn hair catching the golden twilight most fetchingly.

"Miss Thurlow," I said with a smile, and looked at Holmes, who was still watching her as she moved.

"Indeed," he agreed in an almost thoughtful tone, before finally turning his eyes back towards the house, his manner instantly all business. "Now perhaps we shall discover precisely why our presence is required."

Nodding, my smile grew wider as Miss Thurlow raised her head on hearing the approach of the cart, and after a moment waved towards us happily, before closing her book, and hastening across the lawn to meet us in front of the entrance.

The cart drew up outside the wide granite staircase at the front door and halted, just as the young woman reached the same spot.

"Dr. Watson! Mr. Holmes!" she greeted us as we stopped, her smile wide if a little apologetic. "It was so good of you to come...and so quickly!"

"We made the soonest possible haste the moment we got your telegram," I replied, opening the door of the cart and descending to the gravel drive below.

"Yes..." my companion added as he followed down. "The urgency was clear in your wire. But I wonder, Miss Thurlow," he said, getting right to the point as he looked around the Pendragon estate, "whether you might be able to tell us whether there is in fact a case for us at the end of this jaunt or not?" He levelled his gaze back upon her. "Mr. Cuddy here informed me during our trip here that while there was a theft as you indicated, the culprit has already been apprehended and indeed the jewels returned to their rightful owner. Have we come here for naught?" There was no denying the rather sharp edge in his voice.

She shook her head somewhat helplessly with a sigh. "It is rather a long story, and I am afraid that my rather over active tongue is the reason for you being brought here. Perhaps we should go inside, so that I may impart to you the series of events?"

"I think perhaps you'd better inform us now," my colleague said, moving his evaluative eyes over the house. "There is little point in invading this place and entangling ourselves with its denizens if we are not required and could be put to better use elsewhere." The growing trace of irritation was most evident in his voice. "Why are we here, Miss Thurlow? And _is_ there a case for us to investigate?"

She swallowed and cast her eyes down for a moment, her fingers fumbling with her book, before with a great sigh, she raised them to meet mine and my companion's. "Yes and no, Mr. Holmes," she replied, receiving an arched eyebrow and a penetrating stare as Holmes's eyes fixed upon her once more. Our friend's nerves were not improved by the look, and she composed herself with a deep intake of breath before answering his very pointed unspoken question.

"Very well…this is how it is, sir. As you are aware, not long after I last saw you both at Baker Street, I accompanied my dear friend, Lady Margaret Sotherby, here in place of her absent husband to attend the hunt. She is a most accomplished and avid rider, and was most keen to exercise her skills that have stagnated as of late, being London based as she is."

"It was during our trip here on the train that we began the pleasant process of catching up, as we had not seen each other properly since the funeral of my father, and I informed her that Dr. Watson was being a profound help to me and acting as my advisor. She inquired if it was the same Dr. Watson that worked with Sherlock Holmes, and when I confirmed it was so and that I had indeed met Mr. Holmes as well, she, rather gleefully I'm afraid, began asking me all sorts of questions on how we met, what were you both like, and so forth."

She gave us both a very regretful, weak, little smile, before continuing, "I'm afraid I was rather caught up with her enthusiasm and answered her questions to the best of my ability...though took great pains to not disclose too much either, for I value my friendship with you both and would not dream of revealing anything remotely personal or beyond the basics. I also took great care to avoid mention of my father's case, so as not to jeopardize any confidences...personal or enforced." The last word was said with a rather bitter tone. "However, I digress. That night, after we arrived, we were having dinner with Viscount Lynley, who was a dear friend of Maggie's late father, and she proceeded to mention my acquaintance with you both." A faint pink tone spread over her ivory cheeks. "Needless to say, I was most embarrassed and rather mortified that she did so. For not only did she summarize all that I had told her, but added to it so as to make it sound as though you, Mr. Holmes and you, Doctor, and I were the closest of friends."

There was no denying the embarrassment she now laboured under as she continued to recount her tale, her eyes refusing to settle fully on either of us as she spoke. "So, not only was I heavily chastising myself for ever mentioning the fact I knew either of you at all, but now I was being pressed for information by His Lordship, his family, and other guests for any information I ever had on either of you at all. I kept only to the facts though, I am pleased to say. I mentioned your upcoming marriage, Doctor, and Mr. Holmes's hobbies of fencing, boxing, violin playing, and some riding. He asked if you, Mr. Holmes, were keen on hunting, and I replied I did not believe you were, as you mentioned before I left that you did not keep up on such things." As she paused to take another large breath, I noticed her hands were still continuing to fiddle nervously with the book they were holding.

I could not help but be a little amused at her slight blunder in mentioning her association with Holmes, and could not blame her for it in the slightest. For like making mention of the fact I am a medical doctor and immediately receiving ten requests for a free diagnosis, mentioning an association with Holmes and being bombarded with questions was a mistake I often made myself, so, after laying a hand on her arm so as to reassure her, I bade her to continue.

Bestowing me with a most grateful look, she carried on, "Embarrassing as it was, nothing was mentioned of it again after that time, so I put it down to a learning experience. However, shortly thereafter the theft happened." She shook her head with a sigh. "The police were brought, rooms were searched, and in the end they arrested His Lordship's valet."

"Pearson, yes," Holmes interjected, the tip of his cane flicking idly at the gravel at his feet. "They found the necklace on his person, I hear, in the innermost breast pocket of his uniform jacket, mere hours after it was reported missing. A novel hiding place for a thief," he commented with a hint of a smile. "As a sneak thief, the man appears to be either uniquely stupid, remarkably forgetful…or innocent." He uttered the last with an enquiring gaze at her, and I began to see the answer to her rather enigmatic answer over whether there was a case or not. Miss Thurlow nodded vigorously, relieved that Holmes was ahead of the game.

"Yes! He declares his absolute innocence in the crime, and claims no knowledge whatsoever of how the Duchess's necklace came to reside there. And the Viscount not only believes him, but holds firm to the fact his most trusted servant could never have done such a thing. So much so that he prevailed on me that night most pressingly to telegram my '_dear and close friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,'_" her face flushed at that, "to come straight away to help on this matter."

She paused and gazed at him with abject apology. "Please believe me, Mr. Holmes, normally, I would have tried to dissuade him from this course of action, for if he wished to commission your services, he should write to you himself...however, I feel his concerns for his valet's innocence may be valid, and I could not bear an innocent man to be imprisoned...so I did as he asked...and here you are."

"You have cause to believe his story?" Holmes asked quickly.

"Yes," she replied with a nod, her expression one of light puzzlement. "To steal such a prize and then leave it on your person does not as you say seem at all clever. And Mr. Pearson, like so many gentlemen's gentlemen struck me, from what little I saw of him, as a great deal more intelligent then those he serves." She flushed a little at her left handed criticism of her host's faculties. "According to His Lordship, he has been with the Viscount for over twenty years as both valet and unofficial advisor, and is fiercely loyal to him. And that loyalty is quite strong in reverse." She paused for a moment, considering her words carefully. "However, there is more to my belief then mere personal history, for shortly before the alarm was raised, he attended quite calmly on His Lordship in the sitting room with all of us in plain sight. After which, he departed through the French windows, where a minute or two later I am sure that I witnessed him heading out into the gardens for a cigarette. And as you can see…" she gestured around the great expanse of landscaped gardens, "there would have been ample time to dispose of the jewels in any number of invisible locations."

Holmes eyes narrowed, as his gloved finger came to his lips and tapped there as he regarded her. "And yet he did not…to be so calm after a theft, and not to do the most simple of things does strike one as highly improbable."

She sighed and shook her head, before her gaze turned a little tentative. "There are one or two other things I think you should hear, but I do know the Viscount is inside, and most keen for any aid you can offer," she said, turning her head to the door, and holding out her hand to indicate the way. "I am sure he's very eager to tell you everything."

Cuddy's short, sharp, barking laugh disrupted whatever it was Holmes was set to ask next, and before we knew it our bags had sailed once more through the air and settled with a thump at the gravel underfoot.

"Ahr..." he exclaimed with a nod, and picked up the reins of the cart, "the maister be good at tellin' yez things…" Another arc of tobacco juice sailed through the air. "And gas baggin' and meanderin'," he muttered in a startling show of joyful disrespect for his employer, all before the juice landed on the ground by the lawn as he clicked the horse onward and away from the door, leaving me staring at him as he went.

"What a delightfully refreshing man," Holmes said, shaking his head and with a genuine smile on his face.

For her part, Miss Thurlow merely shook her head, and I can see she was trying to hide a grin of her own. "Yes...he is quite something," she agreed. "He is very loyal to the family, I'm told, but you would have a hard time maintaining airs and graces around him. Maggie is not quite recovered from our journey with him yet."

I shook my head in amazement. "It's a wonder the man keeps his job!" I breathed, bending and retrieving my case. "I've never heard a servant be so boldly denigrating about..."

"AHHH!" a man's voice of discovery sailed across the early evening air behind us and cut through my comment. As one all three of us turned to see the front door open, and the butler emerge along with the man I had just been about to mention.

Viscount Maxwell Lynley was not what you'd call an imposing man.

In fact, he was decidedly short, rather round of stomach, and decidedly bowlegged, something not helped by his penchant for wearing jodhpurs and riding boots. He was grey haired with a slight recede, which was worn in a style of some twenty years previously, and from which he had obviously never been disloyal. His eyes were blue but somewhat piggish, as they were set deep into his face, which was almost as perfectly round as a full moon. In fact, he reminded one of nothing less then a 'man in the moon' like figure as he rolled down the steps.

The only thing that could be construed impressive about him was the huge moustache he wore and the excessive mutton chops of yesteryear on either cheek, but even such an excess of facial hair could not cast an air of imposition upon the little man...some five feet two inches in height.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume!" he called, stopping half way down the steps, while flexing a riding crop, which we were soon to discover, never left his hands.

"You assume correctly, my Lord," Holmes replied with an incline of his head. "And this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson."

"Your Lordship." I tipped my hat to him.

The Viscount bounced on his toes a little, his agitation and nervous energy clear though his face stayed calm, as he turned his gaze to our friend. "Well done, Miss Thurlow...well done. Now maybe Pearson will be exonerated."

"Viscount Lynley," Holmes said without standing on further ceremony, "I have been informed of the circumstances and the doubts surrounding the arrest of your valet, Pearson, and I find myself wondering whether you would not be better off in the hiring of a good defence attorney for your man to absolve him, rather than calling on myself?"

The riding crop struck Lynley's thigh and boot. "Indeed not, man!" he exclaimed, staring at him. "For to do so would be to give the police's claims credence, and I refuse to do so!" he said arrogantly. "I say they have found the wrong man...and if that is the case then the true culprit is still at large and there is a case for you to investigate." His whip pointed at both of us in turn. "Besides..." he sniffed, "if I go for a lawyer then the matter will be heard in court...and I have no wish to be without my valet while he languishes in jail for months until he's cleared. Lawyers are so damnably slow."

Holmes arched an eyebrow, as did I, at the Viscount's 'selflessness.'

The Viscount looked up at the fading half light. "Anyway in you come and get settled...Williams here," he announced, gesturing at his butler, "will see you organised. I will see you both in my study as soon as is convenient...and we shall talk this all through in detail." And with that, he turned and walked back inside without even an attempt to shake our hands in greeting.

"This way, gentleman," Williams intoned, before following his master inside.

"Charming man," I said sotto voce to Holmes as footmen emerged to collect our belongings.

Miss Thurlow, however, coughed lightly into her hand, and smiled at us both. "Rather like Mr. Cuddy, he takes some getting used to," she admitted to us softly.

Holmes picked up his bag and moved up the steps. "Then let us see how long that takes, shall we?" His one statement allowed us both to understand that the case had sufficient apparent value for him to stay and put his mind to it.

Moving inside into the grandeur of the house, which was just as opulent inside as it appeared from outside with grand Georgian detail peering at us from every corner, Williams soon had Holmes and I settled in the guest wing where several others were seconded we were told, before leading us back to the main foyer and Miss Thurlow, who was seated there. Pointing out the study across the way, Williams led all three of us, into the bright wood lined room, which was decorated with a large Persian rug and a number of leather couches and chairs, a large polished oak desk with the Lynley crest upon it, and a small fire burning in the carved granite hearth.

Seated in two chairs by that fire were Viscount Lynley and an elderly and immensely aristocratic looking lady, as tall and slender as our host was short and round, and who turned her head in slow scrutiny of our arrival. Though I would estimate her age to have been around seventy, her bearing was erect and full of life, her eyes were a vibrant startlingly pale green, and her piercing gaze over the pince-nez poised upon her Romanesque nose rather making me feel as if I had returned to the classroom once more and was decidedly late for my lessons.

At her feet lay an old Jack Russell Terrier whose brown eyes as he remained head on paws quite still were only slightly less penetrative then their mistresses.

The lady, whom I correctly deduced to be the Dowager Duchess of Monmouth and the owner of the temporarily purloined necklace, swept her eyes over Miss Thurlow and myself before she and Holmes locked eyes and there commenced such a battle of gazes as to preclude the existence of all others in the room, leaving the three remaining to glance at each other with a mixture of nervousness and amusement.

After a moment, the two individuals both seemed to smile a little as one, as some kind of mutual respect passed between them, and Holmes bowed a little. "Your Grace," he said quietly, and upon his utterance I did likewise with a similar bow.

"Mr. Holmes…a pleasure to make your acquaintance," she replied in a tone of voice that reeked of authority. "And you must be the good Dr. Watson…I have read your work my good man." Her brow creased in an expression of annoyance. "My grandchildren will _insist_ on bringing those magazine _things_ into my home. It's a little over emotive for my tastes but I've read worse," she pronounced, quite taking my breath away and before I could phrase a polite response to her decidedly muted compliments, she raised one regal finger and directed us to the couch nearby. "Sit, gentlemen, sit!" she ordered.

Holmes and I dutifully made our way to the leather settee only for the Duchess to raise her hand again as Miss Thurlow followed. "Not you, my dear…you shall sit here by me," she instructed, patting the arm of the chair beside her. With a somewhat sheepish look and a quick curtsey as befitting the Duchess's rank, Miss Thurlow made her way quickly to the chair and sat down, only to give a little oh of surprise as the Duchess's dog decided that her lap would be more comfortable than the floor and jumped up to curl itself up into a white and black ball. The older woman merely patted the dog, oblivious of any discomfort to her young neighbour, and smiled. "Good boy, Prince. He likes you, Miss Thurlow."

"Ah." The young woman nodded a little awkwardly, and while patting the pampered pet gingerly. "How nice."

The Duchess turned back and gazed around the room, which was silent, with Holmes hiding his amusement by tracking the back on one finger over his lips as he leaned on the arm of the couch. As the silence continued, the formidable woman turned her eyes to the Viscount. "_Well_ Maxwell?" she demanded. "Are we going to sit here in silence all afternoon admiring one another? You're the host. You brought Mr. Holmes down here on your hunch…let's be having you, man!"

The Viscount sprang immediately to his feet. "Ah…yes…quite, thank you, Aunt Evangeline," he stammered with a nod, the bullish little man obviously quite cowed by the older woman. "Right…Mr. Holmes. I take it Miss Thurlow has informed you of the details?"

"Only so far as to tell me of your conviction as to the innocence of your long serving Valet and his arrest…as well as his actions in the immediate period before the discovery of the missing necklace," Holmes told him before his eyes moved to the Duchess. "I presume it was you who discovered the item gone from your rooms, Your Grace?" he enquired.

"You presume correctly, sir," she replied instantly, and I couldn't help but notice the gleam in her eyes as we began. I had seen that gleam many times before in the eyes of aspiring amateur detectives and aficionados of Holmes's work. It appeared that even the higher echelons of the nobility were not impervious to the lure of a possible mystery. "Dinner was over, and the gentlemen had just joined the ladies once more after their cigars. The men were being their usual _braggart _selves boasting over their prowess as horsemen, until I took the time to remind them that my late husband, Mortimer, could have ridden them all into the ground…" She paused, her eyes momentarily misty. "Such a man." She sighed, and then coughed. "At which point, I decided to retire for the night. Upon doing so, I went to take off the few pieces of jewellery I had worn that evening, and gave them to my maid, who promptly let out a squeal…foolish flighty girl…and came rushing back from the powder room adjoining my suite to tell me that the small safe in which I carry my jewels had been uncovered and opened."

"Was your maid in your rooms the entire time?" Holmes queried, leaning forward.

"Bar a short time," the Duchess replied. "When she went to her room."

"What for?" he asked immediately.

"She says to fetch a fresh handkerchief," the older woman answered, wrinkling her nose. "She does have the most irritatingly constant sniffle."

My colleague nodded, before inquiring, "Was there anything taken apart from the necklace?"

"Merely the necklace. This one, given to me by late husband as was all my jewellery. He was a generous man," she said, and drew from her pocket a most magnificent sapphire collar, which I could see was worth a small fortune, before Holmes took it and began evaluating it.

"Just this one piece was taken even though you had others there?" he asked.

"Only that," she agreed with a nod.

"Curious," I said, looking closely at the French style Empire piece. "Why would a valet with such treasures laid in front of him, choose to steal only this one piece…and make no attempt to either hide it or abscond?"

"Even more curious," Holmes added, handing the Duchess her back her jewels, "how did a valet manage to open your safe? Was it forced?"

"No…merely opened, the combination discovered," she replied. "I believe the arresting Inspector used the term 'cracked.'"

"A cracksman." My friend sat back, and turned his attention to the Viscount. "Does your valet have such a talented background?"

The older man appeared most uncomfortable. "He may have had some trouble in the past yes…but that was twenty odd years ago when he was in his early twenties!"

"What kind of trouble? Pray be frank with me, Your Lordship," Holmes stressed, but there was a moment's silence before a response was forthcoming.

"He was arrested for burglary," the Viscount muttered, and with that, I glanced at my companion, the idea that perhaps the man had been falsely accused wavering somewhat at that news.

"But dammit, man!" His Lordship burst out on seeing the look I gave my colleague. "That was entirely different circumstances. He fell into debt and bad company. I came across him after he served his time, and he helped me when I was waylaid by ruffians on my way through London's streets one night. He told me his story, and I gave him a chance. He started as an underfoot man here and worked his way up. It's been twenty years that he's been in my service, and he's been nothing but honest and loyal!" he insisted, his red face becoming even more scarlet. "My entire family would vouch for it!"

"Calm yourself, Your Lordship." Holmes rose to his feet, and moved a little through the room. "The news that your valet has some background in these dealings just convinces me further that you and Miss Thurlow have been correct in your estimation of the situation. It is doubtful in the extreme that he is the perpetrator of this short term theft. A man with a background in burglary would not have been foolish enough to plot such a robbery, steal only one item, and then parade around with it in his jacket pocket while the police were called. It seems quite clear that the item was placed there to incriminate him."

"But by who?" the Duchess exclaimed, removing her glasses. "Who would want to incriminate a valet?"

"Someone with a grudge against him?" I ventured. "Someone from his past?"

"Or someone merely attempting to avoid incrimination themselves," Holmes added, crossing over to the window, before turning to look back at the Viscount. "Is your valet involved with any of the serving girls in the house?" he asked.

The older man blinked. "Pearson? No…I believe he has an understanding with a young widow in Lynmouth…why do you ask?"

"If he himself did not place the jewellery there, someone had to have had opportunity to do so. The most obvious time would be when he was off duty and…" His lips tugged upwards slightly in a wry smile. "Out of his uniform jacket."

"Perhaps…" I suggested slowly, glancing over at Miss Thurlow, "when you saw Pearson heading into the gardens, it was not merely for the taking of a cigarette?"

The young woman flushed and nodded. "Perhaps not," she murmured.

"An illicit assignation?" the Duchess declared. "Maxwell _what_ kind of a house are you running here?" she demanded. "Thievery! Debauchery!" she berated him, though again I could not help but notice the spark of enjoyment in her eyes.

"Aunt Evangeline, please," the little nobleman pleaded with his more illustrious relative, before turning his attention back to us. "Why would he not mention an assignation?"

"It is mere supposition, Viscount Lynley," Holmes replied swiftly. "But there could be any number of reasons…especially if the man had two young ladies engaged without their knowledge of each other…a man's fear of a woman may often outweigh that of the law."

I could not help but notice the flicker of the Viscount's eyes towards his aunt as he answered. "Indeed, sir. Indeed."

"Nevertheless," my friend continued, drawing himself up and towering over the tiny aristocrat, "we may well be doing your man a secondary injustice. Tomorrow morning, Watson and I shall travel to where he's being detained."

"Lynmouth Police Station," The Viscount offered, to which Holmes nodded in gratitude.

"Where we shall question him ourselves," my friend stated, and was about to offer more, when the door the study burst open and a tall, slim, bespectacled, dark haired young man of about twenty or so entered in a rush.

"Father, this is absolutely intolerable you must…" he began, before his words halting dead with his progress. "Oh…" he stumbled, gazing at us, as his blue eyes flinched somewhat, "you have guests. I apologise, Father."

"As well you should, boy!" The Viscount frowned at him. "Knock, boy! Knock!" he chastised with a sigh. "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is my younger son, The Honourable Phillip Lynley."

Young Lynley was a handsome young man whose length of bone and height I could only attribute to his late mother; his blue eyes, though, which lit up on mention of Holmes's name, were definitely his father's. "Mr. Holmes, I..." he started only to be stopped by the raising of his father's riding crop.

"Later, Phillip!" he instructed rather harshly. "You may fawn over our guests at dinner, and indulge that insatiable brain of yours all you like. Now though, you will leave us and where is your brother, George?"

Philip's face darkened considerably. "With his wife, sir," he replied. "That is what I wished to discuss with you."

The Viscount took a step towards him. "And I have discussed that with you enough, sir," he barked. "I will hear no more of it. I will see you at dinner, Phillip," he dismissed him summarily, before turning back to his chair. The young man stood his ground for a moment, before with an embarrassed expression, tempered with a deep frustration, he inclined his head in a bow to us all and departed.

"I apologise," the Viscount said. "Like myself, my sons are headstrong…though Phillip thinks his intellect gives him the right to make pronouncements on the rest of us," he murmured.

"You are too hard on the boy, Maxwell," the Duchess told him. "You always have been. Not all of us are cut from the same cloth. Phillip is not George…and frankly there's no great harm in that."

Again the older man flinched. "We have guests, Aunt."

The Duchess merely gazed at him. "Thank you, Maxwell. I was not at all aware of that," she replied in a pleasantly withering tone.

"Who else was here the night of the robbery?" Holmes cut in suddenly, interrupting the tense family moment, his eyes on the door through which Phillip Lynley had departed. "Apart from the servants, I mean."

"Myself, Her Grace, my two sons Phillip and George, George's wife Claire, Miss Thurlow here and Lady Margaret, Miss Alexandra de Courcy, Mr. and Mrs. Martin Yeates, Mr. Jackson Cobb and Mr. Alexander Parry all friends of my son George…oh, and Colonel Hapsworth and his wife, my neighbours."

"All of them staying in the house?" Holmes asked.

"Except for the Colonel and his lady, yes…" the Viscount agreed with a nod.

"And all were present in the sitting room before Her Grace retired to discover her jewels missing?" my friend enquired.

"All!" the Viscount replied adamantly, as Holmes glanced at Miss Thurlow, who gave a small nod of affirmation.

"I presume there are to be more guests arriving?" he quizzed our host.

"Indeed, we shall have more guests arriving this evening with their horses and entourage. They shall join us for dinner tonight in advance of the hunt tomorrow at noon, and to stay for the Hunt Ball. As well as another hundred guests travelling from around the county on the morning of the hunt to ride with the hounds and to dance later."

"That will hamper matters considerably. I suppose it would be to no avail for me to ask you to postpone the hunt?" my colleague asked with an air of a man who already knew the answer.

"None!" the Viscount and the Duchess chorused in horror. "The very idea!" Her Grace huffed in indignation. "The hunt is one of the greatest in the Isles, and has never been postponed in over a hundred years, not through war or family bereavement. The idea that it should stop for this…preposterous!"

"I take it you will be riding yourself, Your Grace?" Holmes's smile was noticeable, and I looked at her in surprise, for she was a woman of advancing years.

"You take it correctly, sir," she replied proudly. "I have a fine new black Hunter I am chomping at the bit to try." Her green eyes flashed once more, as she glanced at Miss Thurlow. "And were this young lady not in mourning, I would have insisted she seat herself on my old steady grey to join us." Miss Thurlow did her best to smile gratefully, but neither myself nor Holmes missed the trace of relief in her eyes. "Still," the Duchess continued as she rose to her feet, "you shall all join us for dinner this evening…it promises to be an interesting event. Nothing whets the appetite like an impending hunt, and with your presence, Mr. Holmes, there will be much to talk of."

The Viscount regarded us both. "I must move on with organisations for our later guests and their animals, as well as for dinner…is there anything else you wish to know?"

"Not at the moment, Your Lordship, no," Holmes replied. "Though I shall seek you out, if you do not mind, should I have more to ask."

"Of course," our diminutive host agreed with a nod. "I am at your disposal, sir, and you have my thanks for coming."

We all stood as the two aristocrats departed, Miss Thurlow having to give 'Prince' a gentle nudge to send him from her lap, so content was he, and with a huff remarkably like that of his owner, he followed them out, leaving us three alone.

"Miss Thurlow," said Holmes quickly as soon as they were gone, "now I would like to know what it is you did not tell me outside. That which you said I should hear of…there were other events occurring during your stay that lead you to your own suspicions?"

The young woman's eyes turned down to her shoes, as her cheeks flushed at the question my friend put to her. "It is not my place to mention such suppositions," she replied softly, before finally looking up at Holmes. "However...yes…I have some suspicions...though I have no proof...that his Lordship's elder son, George, whom you have not yet met, may somehow be involved."

Holmes indicated for her to resume her seat across from him. "Pray continue, and tell me what you know, or believe you know." He folded his arms across his chest as we both sat. "Why would you believe the heir of Pendragon to be the culprit?"

Taking her seat, she chose her words carefully. "Well, I normally do not base my opinions on a person due to the common perception others have on them. However, I must agree with them in this case. George Lynley, at age twenty and three, is rumoured to be, and indeed has proven just that this past week, to be a man of excess. He drinks far more than is healthy, is crass and rude, and is...well...quite horrible to his wife." She paused for a moment, and I could see her struggle to contain her ire at the last part of her remark. My companion's face darkened at that, as did mine, but he remained silent and nodded for her to continue.

"Claire, his wife, is a kind but rather shy young woman, and, I must say, very attractive. But she is denigrated and shamed continuously by her husband. If it were not for his younger brother, Phillip, she would have far more bruises on the outside as she does, I am sure, on the inside. There is no doubt that _that_ is what Phillip was alluding to when he arrived.His father perceives it to be jealousy on Phillip's part, both of George as the elder and of his marriage to Claire, of whom there can be no doubt Phillip is fond…but George is an extrovert and a well known sportsman while his brother is bookish and quiet…they are in their own way not unlike my own brothers in that regard…but the Viscount is blind to his favoured elder son's excesses." Her normally calm grey eyes flashed."Quite frankly, Mr. Holmes, the man is a horrid, drunken brute!" she exclaimed, her vehemence was rather striking, as I do not think I had ever seen her so enraged before. Struggling to contain herself, she inhaled slowly before continuing, "He has also, in another showing of his complete and utter lack of respect to his wife…brought his mistress here."

I shifted somewhat in surprise at that.

"She is an older woman, Mr. Holmes, not much older than I, but certainly more than him. Her name, as you have heard the Viscount say, is Alexandra de Courcy, you may have heard of the de Courcy's, for they have a Baronetcy in Northumbria and are quite wealthy. Alexandra is an only child and an heiress, and, according to Maggie, rumoured to be well…" she paused, her face showing her displeasure at having to speak so of someone else, "a loose woman with a definite history of being…" she shifted slightly and blushed, "driven by her passions." She cleared her throat, somewhat keen to move on. "Though His Lordship believes her only to be the sister of a friend of his son's and a keen huntswoman, a story backed up by his friends, Mr. Parry and Mr. Cobb. She is just as unpleasant as he is...and yet...I do not think that all is well between the pair, as Maggie...I mean Lady Margaret...agrees."

My friend's head sank to his chest slowly. "And how came you ladies to this supposition?"

Her grey eyes regarded him keenly for a moment, before she turned to me and arched an eyebrow in inquiry at me. I nodded for her to continue, and inwardly lamented at my companion's way of listening.

"There have been a few instances, that seem minor at first look, but when combined do lean towards him," she began. "First of all, there is the fact that the elder Lynley and his brother do not get along, especially over Claire and how he treats her. I have seen the bruises, Mr. Holmes, though the poor woman does try her best to hide them by wearing long gloves. There is also the singular conversation that Miss de Courcy had with Mr. Lynley when she arrived three days ago."

"Lady Margaret was making her way down from her room upstairs when she overheard Miss de Courcy telling him in no uncertain terms that she '_had had enough and wanted what was due her,'_ and if she did not get it that she would '_take steps._' We both agreed it sounded ominous at the very least. But the odd behaviour involving George Lynley did not end there, for there is the rather strange relationship that Mr. Lynley has with his so-called best friend, Mr. Martin Yeates."

"On the very night, Maggie heard Miss de Courcy threaten Mr. Lynley, he had made comments for all to hear, to this newly married friend of his, during dinner…comments that dealt with his 'pre-marital nocturnal activities.'" She sighed and shook her head with an expression of vague disgust. "Mr. Yeates and his new bride, Lavinia, arrived not long after Maggie and I did, and are most charming and affable people, he even entertained us with an evening of jokes, song and prestidigitation after dinner one night. He hails from a good family around these parts, I believe, though much like my mother's somewhat insolvent. However despite that disadvantage, he managed to maintain a reasonably fashionable lifestyle until recently, when he speculated with some success upon the American stock market and is now comfortable. Neither Maggie nor myself can understand how he could be friends with such a man as Mr. Lynley, but after his comments, we wondered this even more, for Lavinia did not look the slightest bit pleased with such a recounting of her husband's past peccadilloes."

"I can well imagine," I said echoing her disgust. "What kind of a man raises a friend's dalliances with other ladies in front of his wife?"

"The remarks seemed in poor taste but relatively innocuous, I thought, given the excess of George's alcohol intake. However, later that evening, that is, as I was on my way to my room, I heard Mr. Yeates's voice in a loud whisper near the shadows by the stairs telling someone I could not see, that if 'she found out' he would 'lose everything.' They must have heard me then, for there was silence after. Though what that means, I do not know." She gazed off into the fire that crackled nearby with a most thoughtful expression on her face. "On talking together in her room later, Maggie and I did, however, suspect he was talking to Mr. Lynley, for there was no one else staying here that he would speak to so candidly, and he does not appear to have much of a relationship with Mr. Cobb or Mr. Parry. In fact, he avoids Mr. Cobb rather noticeably." Her brow furrowed, as though she was realising that for the first time.

Holmes raised his head as he always did when his font of information had finished providing him with his precious data, his eyes turning to Miss Thurlow as he inhaled slowly. "It could well have been Lynley he was speaking with," he agreed, "there does appear to be much revolving around The _Honourable_ George Lynley that is unhealthy." Rising to his feet, he moved to the fireplace and leaned on the high mantel. "But there is nothing to indicate that he had any particular reason to steal the necklace, let alone incriminate the valet for it...though we must ascertain his precise location during the moments before the discovery of the theft, as must we for all who were there."

"There is also this air around it all that feels as though the root of all these instances is money, Mr. Holmes," Miss Thurlow offered, as she continued to watch his movements. "Getting her due? Losing everything? Those are usually words one uses when there is money involved, are they not?"

He gazed at her and nodded slightly, though he quite surprised me with his next comment. "Or with regards to love affairs, Miss Thurlow."

Inclining her head, she considered that for a brief moment. "Perhaps," she acquiesced. "Though I see no evidence of Mr. Yeates having one currently, for he and his wife appear a most devoted couple."

"Consider though…" Holmes instructed, his finger pointing towards her, "the mistress, older...tired of waiting for 'what is her due'…perhaps an ambition towards the position of mistress of Pendragon one day? As to Mr. Yeates, it need not be a present dalliance we talk of, Miss Thurlow. The past can do as much harm as the present...a scandal...hushed up that only his best friend knows of. Something sinister in his past that if discovered by his wife could irretrievably harm their marriage…an illegitimate child or hasty first wedding."

He clasped his hands behind his back. "I will say this much, Miss Thurlow...whether our Valet proves innocent or guilty, you are quite correct, there is a tangled web to be unravelled here...and one that carries within it the potential to be to be much darker and more destructive then a mere theft." I could see his eyes glint with the thought of discovering what had occurred here over the last few days, and a smile touched his lips as he raised his head to us both.

"I look forward to meeting the dramatis personae you have so ably sketched out, Miss Thurlow," he declared. "Tonight's performance, as the Duchess has said, should be most interesting indeed."

* * *

_**Authors' Notes (regular): Greetings all! Boy have we missed you, but as our offline lives have been most hectic as of late (especially mine), this chapter was a bit late in getting out. We apologise profusely, and hope to have the whole mystery arc up for you by the beginning of next week. Thank you for all the kind support as well...the portfolio is completely, and now I am spending the next two weekends moving house (gah!) Anyways, since I see no questions, let me just thank all who have read and/or reviewed, and please keep letting us know what you think! And until next time, sit back and enjoy! Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_

* * *


	6. The Lucifer Hunt Part Two

_Chapter Six: The Lucifer Hunt – Part Two_

After our early meetings with the Viscount and Miss Thurlow, Holmes and I retired to our respective rooms where we rested after our long journey. The dinner we had been invited to attend was scheduled for eight thirty, so there were some hours yet to recuperate, and as we did so, our fellow guests began to arrive. Most were huntsmen and women of nobility of varying rank or at the very least from families that were regarded as 'good.'

Though Holmes's antecedents had once been squires, it was far enough removed for him to fall short of the required 'distinction' of our fellow guests, and with Miss Thurlow's mother's side of the family, the Pembridges, being impoverished minor nobility, by the time he and I awoke, washed, and dressed for dinner, we discovered ourselves to be the only 'common' folk present in the house. We were subsequently to discover, that _that _situation did not sit well with all we were to dine with.

The Right Honourable George Alexander Maxwell Hannibal Lynley, next heir to the Pendragon Estate and the title of Viscount, was an attractive young man of twenty and three and bristling with vitality and energy. Strappingly well built with broad shoulders and powerful muscular arms and legs, he was, like his father, quite short…though some five feet six inches to his fathers five and two. Unfortunately like many short men, what he lacked in stature he made up for in tigerish aggressiveness, and there was no doubting who was the leader of his particular pack of friends.

Though there was little doubt we could have picked him out for ourselves, as Holmes and I descended the stairs for pre-dinner drinks, he was pointed out to us by Phillip Lynley, who joined us almost immediately. Eager to make our acquaintance again, he set about informing us who those of note were through out the room - his brother, George's wife Claire, and some sundry friends of theirs including the exceedingly handsome Mr. Alexander Parry, whose dark good looks and equally dark eye for and way with the ladies was evident even from a distance, the tall angular Mr. Jackson Cobb, Miss Alexandra de Courcy, and Mr. and Mrs. Martin Yeates.

There was no denying the tightness in his voice when pointing out his brother, drink in hand and holding court in the centre of a large group of young men and women including Messrs Cobb and Parry, nor when he mentioned the woman, Alexandra de Courcy, a regal and icy blonde seated next to George, laughing quietly along with his entourage. Equally, there was no missing the softness that came with Phillip's pointing out of the young woman seated alone a little way away from the baying group around her husband.

Claire Lynley was a petite brunette with fine almost elfin features and large luminous dark eyes that were entrancing but unmistakeably unhappy. It did not take more than moment for Holmes and I to fathom that Miss Thurlow and her friend Lady Margaret had been correct, Phillip Lynley was indeed overly fond of his brother's wife…a recipe for disaster in any family.

From across the room, George Lynley's sharp blue eyes caught sight of us with his brother and narrowed noticeably. Leaning over to one of his friends, he whispered something with an unmistakeable gesture in our direction and a wicked smile which was followed by laughter and the quick, quiet retelling of the jest at our expense to the group at large. And so it was, unusually for Holmes, that we entered a room where the attention on him was largely mocking. To my friend, of course, it might as well have been water upon a duck's back, for if he showed any sign of interest, it was only in the alignment of his cufflinks on his dress suit.

Our young co-host in the absence of their father or great aunt, who had yet to descend, fetched us two glasses of champagne, and introduced us to one or two others around, including the Viscount's neighbours, Colonel Hapsworth and his wife, who were both also present in the house on the night of the attempted robbery. The Viscount had informed his friend of our presence, and the retired cavalry man was indeed most helpful and glad to recount what he recalled of that evening. The Colonel confirmed that he had been at the table with the gentleman after dinner that night, and that the party had consisted of the Viscount, both his sons, himself, Mr. Yeates, Mr. Parry, and Mr. Cobb.

When asked by Holmes if anyone had left the vicinity of the room, he, unfortunately, told us that all the men had, at one time or another left the room for one reason or other...and yes, he had seen the Viscount's valet, Pearson, after dinner seated outside the dining room, _and _when he had come to make up the Viscount's personal drink...a concoction of alcohol that by the sound of it should leave a man wandering witlessly through three counties after its consumption. Upon mixing and giving it to the Viscount, Pearson had asked for his leave and was duly given it, departing, just as Miss Thurlow had said, through the French windows for the veranda and the garden. So if he had taken the jewellery, it was prior to that, for it was straight afterwards that the Duchess retired for the night claiming a headache from the loud banter between the men.

As he was talking, Phillip Lynley, seeming restless as his brother's group grew ever louder and more fuelled by the flow of champagne, confirmed the Colonel's words, before politely detaching himself from our company. On glancing around a few moments later, I noted him standing alone, watching the assembly as they arrived and mingled, and politely making distant conversation, but remaining where he was against the wall, some six feet away from his brother's wife like a sentry.

"Ahh..." said the Colonel's wife with a smile, facing in the direction of the door to the room, "here are the young ladies. Your friends I believe, Mr. Holmes?" She nodded towards the door, and on turning, we noted Miss Thurlow with a stunningly beautiful raven haired woman descending arm in arm down the staircase, as they talked quietly together.

I had heard of Lady Margaret Sotherby; her father, the late Earl of Brighton, had been a member of the cabinet, and her husband, Sir Nicholas Sotherby, was a prominent young businessman and peer. Recently returned from the Orient, she herself was renowned as one of the most beautiful women of the age, and graceful and charming in accompaniment. I confess I could find no reason to doubt any of it as we watched their approach.

"I am acquainted with Miss Helen Thurlow, yes, Mrs. Hapsworth," Holmes replied, watching the two young ladies. "Lady Margaret, I am unfamiliar with...though I hear tell that she has a ready turn in lively conversation," he commented in reference to her telling all and sundry of Miss Thurlow's association with us.

As if sensing our eyes on her, our friend turned her head from her companion, her eyes sweeping over the crowd until they lighted on us, and where before they had been evaluating the assembled group with a rather distant air, when they reached my companion and I, they warmed instantly, and a small but friendly smile played upon her lips. Giving us both a barely imperceptible nod, she turned back to her friend, who was regarding us with a barely restrained look of fascination and curiosity.

"Such pleasant ladies," Mrs. Hapsworth commented with a friendly smile, "and such good friends despite the years of separation. I believe if Lady Margaret had not married in her debutante year, and left for Hong Kong with her husband, Miss Thurlow's diminished position till late might not have been so dire. It was unfortunate that they should be reunited only on Lady Margaret and Sir Nicholas's return when they heard of her father's death. A funeral is not the place to meet old friends." Her last words were punctuated with a sad shake of her head.

"Nor indeed is a crime the place to meet two such prominent celebrities," the Colonel said of ourselves, prompting a loud laugh from my colleague.

"Colonel, I scarce meet anyone save in such circumstances," he replied, his eyes mirthful, prompting the Colonel to flush at his words and join with him.

"Yes, sir...I suppose you're right!" he guffawed, as his wife and I joined them, and it was in such jollity that Miss Thurlow and Lady Margaret joined us.

"Good evening," came a soft, melodious voice from behind my colleague, who, with a smile still large on his face, turned and inclined his head in greeting.

"Good evening, Miss Thurlow," he returned, as did we all. She gazed at him for a moment with an intrigued expression that showed how little she had seen my friend actually in high spirits, before turning our attention to her companion. "Mr. Holmes...Dr. Watson...allow me to introduce Lady Margaret Sotherby."

The dark haired woman held out her hand for Holmes to take. "Good evening, gentlemen," she greeted us with a voice I can only describe as low and almost sensual in nature, and indeed, it suited her quite well.

Taking her hand, Holmes bowed over it, and looked up at her. "Good evening, Lady Margaret," he greeted her with a polite smile. "A pleasure...I had occasion to meet your father once or twice. A most personable man."

"And to meet you, Mr. Holmes...and thank you. It has been only two years, but his loss is still felt keenly," she replied with an incline of her head, before turning her attention to me. "And you, Dr. Watson, I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance. Your aid to my dearest friend is most appreciated."

I tell you now, that it was just as well my heart was firmly in the possession of my Mary, for it is no exaggeration to say that the green eyes that turned upon me that evening were as startlingly beautiful as I have ever seen. There is no doubt in my mind that Lady Margaret, married or no, left behind her a trail of pining gentleman fighting for her attention that would have made Helen of Troy envious. And it is with some embarrassment that I admit I flushed under her gaze, my words of greeting somewhat inept and stumbling, before I finally remembered to release her hand. I could virtually feel my friend's mirth increase tenfold beside me; however, I thank heaven that if she took notice, the good lady did not show it, and with a friendly smile, she turned to greet and speak with the Colonel and his wife, as Miss Thurlow gave me a reassuring smile of her own.

"Have you both settled in?" she inquired of us, in what, as I could readily and gratefully tell, was an attempt to shift the focus away from my bumbling.

"Indeed..." Holmes replied quietly. "Our rooms are more than comfortable." He gazed at myself and her both with a smile born of intent, his words softer still as the others in our party talked. "And I have discovered conveniently located to those of your fellow guests that night, Miss Thurlow."

Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly at that. "A fortunate coincidence, indeed," she agreed, her voice equally low as she flashed him a tiny smile. "The Viscount was never known for his subtlely."

"So it would seem," he said privately, and the look he was giving us became decidedly more conspiratorial. "After Watson and I return from questioning the valet in the morning, with the Hunt starting to gather, certain parts of Pendragon House may be open to...closer inspection," he suggested to us.

I have never been comfortable with the idea of 'breaking in' per se into people's homes or rooms; however, I am also of the belief that we have done more good with these occasional intrusions than not in such cases that Holmes has suggested doing so. So, with a slow nod, I turned to Miss Thurlow, who I expected would frown on such a request, but on the contrary appeared rather intrigued.

On seeing what way her mind was running, I was about to dissuade her from the idea of joining us, when our host, his aunt on his arm, entered the room greeting all, and barely a heart's beat later, the call to dinner was given.

We were seated opposite one another at long table with some forty or so other guests, the Duchess at one end of the table, the Viscount at the other. As was the custom, with the Duchess filling the role of hostess in the absence of the Viscount's late wife, his lordship sat with the two most prominent lady guests to his left and right. In this case, however, the two ladies had little time for each other, and Lady Margaret and Miss de Courcy spoke not a word to each other for the entire evening. Beside them sat Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parry, George Lynley's friends, whose bonhomie with Miss de Courcy was enough to ensure that Lady Margaret's conversation was directed almost in its entirety to His Lordship. Beside them sat the quiet but sweet faced Mrs. Lynley and another lady by the name of Virginia Mason, who was the fiancée of another of George Lynley's friends.

George Lynley himself sat beside his wife, I'm sure by design, and thereby surrounding the unfortunate girl with himself and his friends for the evening. The nearest point of relief for her was Martin Yeates, who was seated opposite her husband, and who made a point of directing much of his conversation to her, eliciting some of the sweetest shyest smiles I had ever seen on a lady. Seated beside George was Yeates's wife, Lavinia, who from her expression was not entirely keen on the experience, her opinion of her husband's old friend patently lacking and made manifest by the occasional disapproving glance she gave him whenever he called for more wine, which was often. However, opposite her and to my right, we were both fortunate enough to have Miss Thurlow, and we formed a firmly friendly triumvirate.

A triumvirate that was occasionally a quartet as to the right of Mrs. Yeates and opposite myself sat Holmes. For once, his demeanour did not seem bored or restless, and while he was quiet, I could tell his eyes and ears were unusually alert for such a gathering. Two perfectly charming spinster sisters sat to our right, both keen huntswomen, who thankfully for Holmes had absolutely no interest in anything so 'abominable and beastly' as the criminal mind and therefore had never heard of him, but did 'so adore' Paganini, so conversation was at least for him a viable commodity for the evening. Beyond them sat the younger Mr. Lynley with a friend of his, and he played host to the mid part of the table all the way down until the Duchess's influence came into play.

The vast majority of those at the table appeared to be George Lynley's personal friends, and though the atmosphere was lively, the rather intimidating glare of the Duchess of Monmouth, whose mere thrum of impatient fingers upon the table could put manners on a man, kept it decidedly in check. Beside her at the head of the table in his own chair sat the most unusual member of our table, her dog, Prince, who was seated in pomp as his name suggests in confirmation of the noble lady's decided eccentricities.

The wine flowed like water and most partook liberally despite the hunt tomorrow, the lateness of its start no doubt encouraging the riders to imbibe, but the food when it arrived was staggering in its copiousness and its variety. The finest and most exotic of dishes mixed with such local fare as meat pies and haunches of venison. It was a quite amazing sight, and the table seemed to groan with the weight of the lavish fare. It took both of us by surprise, and raised a laugh from the lips of our host.

"Ah Mr. Holmes, Doctor," he chortled on seeing our faces, his glass of hock at his lips, "I see you find the table set to your liking? We like to cater for our esteemed guests' refined palates, but always remind them that there is occasionally nothing finer then good solid English food."

Holmes was about to reply, when the deep baritone voice from the broad chested personage of the Viscount's eldest son cut across him. "Indeed..." he said slowly, "my father sets a most amusedly egalitarian table." He leaned forward, gazing past Mrs. Yeates, who was between them, to address Holmes and myself. "Common food mixed with the rich...most suitable for tonight's table, wouldn't you say?" He arched an eyebrow, making his meaning all too clear.

I glanced over at my companion, feeling a flash of ire and annoyance shoot up my spine, but for the sake of the case and manners, I held my tongue. Next to me, however, Miss Thurlow stiffened in her chair, taking offence at his remark, no doubt not only on our behalf, but also as she was only newly delivered from poverty herself.

My colleague, though, merely watched as George Lynley had his plate filled with the most exotic and expensive of foods, before raising his knife slowly with his eyes on the young man, and reached towards an impressively large pork pie that had been placed before us on the table, cut himself a healthy slice, and dished it onto his plate. "I see you do not partake of this fine Somerset pie, Mr. Lynley," he noted. "A local farmers dish and once the favoured food of King Henry the Eighth, if I'm not mistaken," he addressed the Viscount. "The food of kings and the true gentlemen of the earth was his description, was it not?"

"That's quite correct, sir! Quite correct!" The Viscount nodded, seemingly oblivious to both his son's rudeness and the glare his son gave Holmes at his subtle retort.

Lynley reached for his wine glass, and took a healthy swig before indicating to the footman to refill it, and then glancing at his wife's plate pronounced loudly, "In Heaven's name, Claire, eat will you! It's not like you don't need it!" He nudged her as conversation went on around them. My eyes drawn to them by her husband's volume, I felt a surge of sympathy as the pale young woman winced noticeably at his touch.

"Yes, George. You're right, of course," she murmured. Her voice was so soft and timid I could barely hear her from where I sat, as she quietly moved to take a few small potions of the fare, though she only proceeded to pick at them.

"Oh for pity's sake!" he exclaimed, picking up an entire half roast chicken and dumping it on her plate. "Eat that! Look at Miss de Courcy, she eats as a proper woman should eat...learn from her!" He gestured down the table at the blonde woman who eyed his wife with amusement.

"Let her be, George…" his father interjected, the smile on his face evidence that he was enjoying himself with the attentions of the twin beauties of Lady Margaret and Miss de Courcy, and unable to see his daughter-in-law's discomfort. "If she's not hungry that is."

His son's head turned to him with a smile which altered his face considerably, his eyes twinkling and giving his features such a friendly and warm appearance that I began at last to see how men and women could fall willingly into his sphere of influence.

"Father," he said with a quietly admonishing smile, behind which butter itself would not melt. "What kind of a husband would allow his wife grow pale and wan from lack of food?" he asked plaintively.

His father weighed his words and nodded finally. "He's quite right, Claire…" he agreed a moment later. "Eat, my dear, eat!" he encouraged her with a blindness that quite made me want to roll my eyes and draw him to one side for a harsh talking to.

The Viscount glanced around at us as we ate and smiled once more. "How goes everything? Is it all to your taste, ladies and gentlemen?" he asked in the manner of the country squire, and was greeted with a chorus of approval for the fare.

Lynley sat back with a broad smile, fingering his glass as it was being filled again and glancing to his right. "Everything is wonderful, Father...though I was meaning to ask our esteemed police friend here why he is here investigating a case that is already solved? Surely that isn't how you made your reputation, Mr. Holmes...or is it?" he enquired, his smile still innocence itself, though wasted on us.

As I stiffened further in my chair and stifled the urge to box the young braggart's ears, I noticed both Miss Thurlow open her mouth to defend my companion, only for Lady Margaret's pointedly loud cough to catch her attention, and as the auburn haired woman looked over at her, she caught the shake of her friend's head, and closed her mouth. Though her usually warm grey eyes now had a sharp steely look to them.

Holmes turned his eyes leftwards towards our provocateur. "I am not with the police, sir," he replied easily.

"_Indeed?_" Lynley intoned, as he supped his wine. "My apologies...I tend not to read such escapism as appears in such publications that your friend's _literary _endeavours appear in." A insulting smirk formed on his mouth. "So, you are not a professional then? More an amateur who sells his skills…a tradesman, if you will? My, my," he turned to Messrs Cobb and Parry, "we are even more egalitarian then we thought, are we not?" Several quiet chuckles and smiles occurred around, as my napkin was fisted unseen in my hand in annoyance.

"You are quite right, Mr. Lynley. I am a tradesman…after a fashion," Holmes replied. "Though I tend to trade other's freedom for their imprisonment. And I too am most egalitarian...high or low born it matters little. In fact," he continued, taking a sip of his own claret, "I tend to take the greatest pleasure in dealing with those who abuse their privileged situations...and others. As for why I am here? It is at your father's instigation. And I learned long ago not to assume that everything is as it first _appears_ to be, either in an investigation or in life. For instance..." His head inclined in the direction of a large landscape painting hanging on the wall behind the Viscount. "That appears to be an original Constable, but is in fact a rather good copy." Our heads all turned to look, as Holmes continued, "As is the fake Faberge pin you are wearing in your cravat, sir."

The young man dropped his head to his chest rapidly, and glanced up as everyone within earshot, apart from Holmes who had quietly returned to his meal, turned to stare at the cravat pin. Flushing under the gaze of the friends who had heard, and to whom he had obviously told it was real, Lynley's eyes shot another glare at my colleague, before he grabbed his knife and fork to return to his meal, red faced and carving his food viciously. I must admit to repressing a rather pleased smile at the young braggart's discomfort and ire, and as I cast a quick glance to my left saw Miss Thurlow and Lady Margaret both trying to do the same, though Lady Margaret's was less concealed.

The meal continued with relative uneventfullness for the next while, with George Lynley washing his embarrassment away in even more wine, and his close attention disgracefully now turned to the lady seated up the table from him beside his father, their glances and smiles whenever his father's attention was distracted so obvious as to remind one of a husband and wife...while his true wife sat ignored beside him. Finally the humiliation proved too much for Claire Lynley, and she excused herself quickly by claiming illness and bolted from the table before her father-in-law could enquire after her. Rather than showing any guilt, her husband's eyes glowered after her as if it was her behaviour rather than his that should be admonished.

As dessert ended and coffee was served, the topic turned to the hunt the following day, and it was not long before Lynley's attentions turned in our direction once more, though this time to me. "Tell me...Doctor..." He peered down the table at me. "Do you ride?"

I glanced up from my glass with some surprise at his address. "Yes, but not as much as I would like, I am afraid," I replied neutrally, not wishing to aggravate the man nor engage him in active conversation.

"Will you be joining us in the hunt tomorrow?" he asked, the scepticism dripping from his voice as he pushed his dessert away from him.

"No, I am afraid not," I answered, carefully containing my irritation.

"Come, Doctor!" he proclaimed, leaning on the table to see me better, his tone now openly mocking. "I'm sure you would look quite the sight on a horse!"

"Looking for someone to take the focus off your poor seat are you, George?" said another male voice, quiet and controlled from my left. All eyes in the vicinity of our seats turned to the voice, to see Mr. Yeates picking up his newly poured coffee and gradually turning his eyes across the table at his old friend, his face placid but his gaze sharp, though beside Lynley, Yeates's young bride's expression was one of mortification.

"What was that, Yeates?" George replied, the drinking he had done causing him to be louder than ever, and drawing more eyes in his direction.

Yeates went to reiterate his comment, but saw his wife's face and dropped his head, the words dying in his throat. "Nothing," he murmured, "just a jest, George."

Lynley, however, was not in the mood to let it go. "Oh...a _jest,_ Yeates!" he snorted. "Like your riding skills, you mean."

Yeates said nothing, merely picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee, clearly regretting opening his mouth at all.

The Viscount looked over at his son. "George? Martin was joshing with you. There is no need to..." he started.

However, his elder son rapidly rose to his feet, startling all with the suddenness of his movements, his heavy chair scraping loudly across the floor and saved from toppling to the ground only by the quick reflexes of a footman, as he stared down the table at his old school friend. "You believe yourself to be a better horseman than I. Don't you, Yeates! Ever since you gained those hunt collars in Galway and Winchester and I didn't," he spat, lowering the goblet of wine he held from his snarling angry mouth. There was silence around the table which only seemed to heighten his anger. "You mean to insult me, sir!" he accused, slamming the glass down so hard the stem broke and wine was spilled everywhere. "You believe your precious hunt collars make you a better rider than I!"

We could clearly see Yeates's jaw working to stay clenched and silent, conflict clear in his eyes, and his appearance that of a man who had been provoked several times of late. He too rose to his feet, though his voice as quiet as his friend's was loud. "No, sir," he said, drawing himself up. "I believe it, because I _am_ a better rider than you."

Holmes sat back and placed his napkin on the table, folding his arms, as he watched the scenario unfold with interest. The rest of the table was more obviously agog, until an autocratic voice demanded, "George Lynley, sit down this instant, and stop behaving like an uncivilised fishwife!" No one was more surprised at the table than the Duchess of Monmouth, when her grandnephew completely ignored her.

Lynley's eyes narrowed at his friend in front of the increasingly stunned assembly. "Is that so?" he murmured, his suddenly quiet tone worrying me far more than his previous bellowing and growling. "Very well, Mr. Yeates," said he. "Let us prove it, shall we? You and I shall race through Lucifer's Playground tomorrow. The winner takes all bragging rights, a thousand pounds, and the other's best Hunter besides," he challenged.

Yeates returned his gaze, albeit from a greater height. "Done." he replied quietly.

Lavinia Yeates rose to her feet in immediate objection. "Are you both mad? Lucifer's Playground is no racecourse! You may risk your own neck, George, but my husband shall do no such thing!" she interjected immediately.

Yeates turned his eyes to his wife. "Lavinia..." he said with a soft tone, beginning to try to explain, as men must to women, why they must accept such a challenge.

"No, Martin!" she insisted. "You will not! I will leave tonight if you tell me you will persevere on such a thing! I know there have been deaths in there, and I will not see you dead for crashing through that hellhole on some quest to assuage your pride."

Yeates became all too conscious of the eyes on him, but none more so then the twin sets of his wife's and his friend's. If there was conflict in his face before, it was as nothing to what passed over his face then, but eventually his shoulders slumped. "Very well," he acceded to his wife's wishes. It did not, however, end there.

"No, sir!" Lynley shook his head adamantly. "You've accepted the wager, Yeates, there are plenty here who heard it! If you retire from it now you concede the bet."

"_What?_" gasped I, unable to stay silent a moment longer, rising from my seat at such unsporting behaviour. "That is grossly unfair, Mr. Lynley."

"Indeed," said the Colonel, standing and backing my words from the far end of the table beside the Duchess, the acoustics in the now silent dining hall carrying everything. "You cannot hold the man to such a wager when the lady asks him not to."

"It is not my fault he is so subjected to his wife's whims," Lynley returned, folding his arms across his chest. "Nor that he is a coward willing to hide behind his wife's skirts…far too scared to do what he knows he must. He is not the man I used to know." His smile grew a little and took on a decidedly malicious tone. "Though his wife might think that's a good thing…"

Yeates eyes locked to his instantly. "I'm no coward," he rumbled.

"No?" Lynley smirked, and walked across the room. "You have already backed out of two tests that would indicate otherwise. Let us test that theory one final time, shall we?" he said, walking to the wall behind him, and my eyes widened as he took down the two rapiers that hung there. Crossing back over, he proffered the end of one to Yeates. "We fence. The first to draw a blow loses. Don't fight me…" he issued the ultimatum, "and I shall increase the forfeit." His words were ominous indeed, and Yeates stiffened noticeably, his eyes glancing to his wife while my mind immediately went to what it was Miss Thurlow had overheard a few nights ago. Lynley had something over him, make no mistake.

"Don't do this, George," Yeates whispered after a moment. "Please…you know I am no swordsman. I concede you are the better man in that…just…take the wager!" he insisted.

"Not enough," the insufferable little bully snapped intent on inflicting a humiliation. "Not anymore."

"This is insanity!" Lavinia Yeates exclaimed. "Your Lordship!" she appealed to his father, who was entirely taken aback by all this.

"George," he called over, as he rose unsteadily to his feet, "this has gone far enough! Put down that sword!"

"I shall not, sir!" his son blazed. "He impugned my honour, and has reneged on a fair wager…I shall have satisfaction."

"Then have it from me, sir," Holmes cut in, rising from the table. "If Mr. Yeates will allow me to step in as his second, that is."

"Holmes, my dear fellow, _what_ do you think you are doing?" I asked with amazement, as I turned to him.

"Abiding by the rules of fair play, Watson," he replied, smiling at me, as myself, Lady Margaret, and Miss Thurlow all stared at him in shock. "Mr. Lynley has exerted his right to satisfaction. It is a duel not to the death but to the first hit, and is therefore not illegal, though technically the weapons should be tipped. And in keeping with the rules, Mr. Yeates is entitled to a second if he is unable to participate, as he is clearly not." He inclined his head towards Mrs. Yeates. "I am under no such restrictions, and may step in."

"Fencing is a gentleman's game, sir," George Lynley sneered. "I don't fight just anyone."

"I am a fair fencer, I believe you'll find, Mr. Lynley," Holmes said, reaching over Mrs. Yeates, and taking the still outstretched rapier before the young man could withdraw it, examining the weapon carefully before gazing down at the smaller man. "I have won an award or two in my time," he commented with a genial smile.

"Have you, by Jove?" the young bulldog snarled, suddenly eager to take revenge for the earlier verbal ripostes thrust at him by my friend. "Very well, Mr. Holmes, let us see what you are capable of."

"No, sir," Martin Yeates voiced from across the table. "I cannot let you fight in my place."

"You must either fight, Mr. Yeates," Holmes replied, "or pay the forfeit. You cannot do the former…and I have the distinct impression the forfeit is something you cannot truly afford." His words to him were earnest, as his eyes met the younger man's, and they held each other's gaze for a moment, before Yeates nodded slowly.

"I am in your debt, sir," he said gratefully, only to have Holmes's smile grow broader as he flexed the rapier.

"Hopefully, Mr. Yeates, when this is done, you shall be in no one's debt this night," my friend returned, before pausing and swishing the weapon in the air a little with a thoughtful expression on his face. "That is, providing I do not prove too rusty with the rapier. The sabre is my preferred weapon, I must admit." He glanced over at Lynley. "As it is a cold night, would the foyer be to your satisfaction?"

"Maxwell!" the Duchess barked, rising to her feet. "Stop this at once!"

"George!" The Viscount finally found his voice, his son's behaviour, something he had obviously overlooked and made great licence for before, now impossible to defend. "Mr. Holmes is a guest in this house here at my request! You shall not fight him."

"It is quite all right, Your Lordship," Holmes responded. "A little exercise after a meal is not unwelcome…and I would rather relish the chance to try out such a fine weapon, and put some lessons into play." His comments left me unsure whether he meant his own fencing lessons or another type all together.

With a nod of his head, Lynley gestured towards the door, and Holmes moved around the table and out into the wide foyer beyond the doors. The entire room was on its feet and moving after them in moments, myself included as I rushed to Holmes's side while he took up position on one side of the foyer. Removing his dress suit jacket, thereby leaving him in his white shirt, tie, and waistcoat, he hung it upon the handle of the expertly built serving door built flush against the wall as if to be part of it, and began to stretch and limber up as we were joined by Miss Thurlow and Lady Margaret who broke ranks from the assembled audience.

"Ladies," he greeted them briefly, concentrating on a series of thrusts. "My apologies for my shirtsleeves."

Lady Margaret stared at him for a moment, clearly impressed by his moves, while Miss Thurlow appeared rather nervous...but there was something else though that flashed in her eyes as she watched him, if only for the briefest of moments, before it was gone, and she moved briskly to my side, her friend in tow, while I frowned a little, my mind darting to my Mary and her Yuletide observations on her friend's level of regard for mine.

"Is Mr. Holmes's skill as good as he claims?" the raven haired lady asked, her expression one of curiosity.

"I have not known him very long, Maggie," Miss Thurlow piped up beside her. "However, he is not one to exaggerate his skills. If he says he is capable, then it is a fact, nothing more."

I found myself nodding in agreement at her words. "Indeed, Lady Margaret. I have only known Holmes to be wrong less than a handful of times and in none of them was he overestimating himself. He has a strict habit of stating the facts, and not letting either modesty or exaggerations get in the way."

"Well then," the Lady replied with no small conviction, "I hope he thrashes the braggart."

Finishing his exercises, Holmes turned to face us. "This evening is proving to be even more eventful then I foresaw." He gave us a bright smile, and concern that he might in fact be taking this too flippantly consumed me at his comment.

"Holmes, Lynley is not to be taken lightly. You may have the height advantage, but he is aggressive, well trained from the sounds of it...not to mention strong, agile, and the younger man," I admonished him.

"And most inebriated," Lady Margaret chimed in.

My friend merely nodded. "That should only serve to work in my favour, Lady Margaret, I assure you." His eyebrow arched as he regarded me. "Watson really...you make me sound positively archaic and feeble," he sniffed, before smiling at me and patting my shoulder. "Not to worry." His smile only grew wider as I huffed.

Miss Thurlow took a step forward, her expression one of concern but supportive. "Good luck, Mr. Holmes," she bade him. "I have no doubt you shall emerge having taught that bully a lesson or two."

"We shall see, eh?" he enthused, and flexed his rapier once more, before turning to face Lynley, who was standing on the far side of the large hall with his own entourage, and speaking animatedly with Jackson Cobb, the lithe willowy man with a set of the sharpest most angular features I had ever seen. The Colonel broke away from the main group to our right as Holmes moved across the floor, his opponent crossing to meet him. Taking charge of the niceties, the Colonel set the two combatants, reiterated the rules, and began the match.

It began cagily enough with the two men gauging each other, but George Lynley was nothing if not an impatient young man, and it was soon obvious that he would drive the fight. His tactic, being shorter in stature, was to feint and dodge inside Holmes's guard to get at him, but my colleague took all such attacks quite calmly and repulsed them, and then on the third, with a quick bend of his long arm, and a nonchalant flick of his wrist, the heir of Pendragon House was disarmed...his sword lying on the floor by his feet.

A ripple of applause ran through the bulk of the onlookers, and stepping away, Holmes saluted him and indicated for him to pick up his weapon. Frowning and watching him as he bent, while ignoring the murmurs of the assembly, Lynley picked up his weapon and began again, his attack fast and strong, as he made use of his power and quick feet, his sword passing within an inch of Holmes's shirt front, as he drove him back. A smile slipped over Lynley's face as he did the same twice more, forcing my friend onto the back foot more and more with aggressive strokes and power.

And then, quite suddenly, Lynley's sword was by his feet again...another flick of the wrist had it flying out of his grasp and into the air, sending him scrambling away as it descended with a clatter to the marbled floor.

Holmes peeled away, his face impassive, as he saluted again, affording the young man the chance to pick up the weapon once more, and moving back to an en garde stance as his red faced opponent scooped it up, his embarrassment manifesting itself upon noting one or two smiles among the general audience. The anger grew more and more evident on his face.

Lynley raised his sword to meet Holmes's weapon, and in a flash the sword skittered across the ground from his grasp once more, sliding to a halt at his father's feet. This time the titters of laughter at Lynley's expense were audible, as Holmes put down his sword and leaned on the top lightly. "Shall we continue, Mr Lynley?" he enquired politely.

Lynley did not answer...his face red with mortification and anger at being so easily out manoeuvred, he marched across the floor and grabbed the weapon from his father's hands, before turning, crossing back towards Holmes, and then attacking him without moving back to the prescribed duelling stance, in an attempt to take the older man by surprise. The attack was concerted and furious, Lynley's speed and power fuelled by his anger, and Holmes was driven back again. However, this time Lynley evaded his parry and spun around inside Holmes's reach and out of sight of the Colonel, our judge, and to the amazement and audible gasps of all who could see, he quite clearly drove his elbow into my colleague's stomach.

"That's completely illegal!" Lady Margaret exclaimed, audible to many in the crowd, and as the Colonel had been unsighted, she turned and marched towards our host with a determined expression on her elegant features.

I took a step forward, fully intending to do God knows what, when a hand on my arm restrained me. With a frown, I turned my head to face Miss Thurlow, whose anger filled expression mirrored my own, as she shook her head slowly, turning her eyes back to Holmes. Before Lady Margaret could call for this to be ended once and for all, or I could do more, Lynley pressed his advantage and rolling away whipped out his sword towards Holmes who was bent almost double trying to catch his breath, whose rapier only just parried the blow as it came down to strike his shoulder. Looking up at the young man, his voice was a wheeze, as he cradled his stomach with his free arm. "An interesting...manoeuvre...Mr. Lynley...one that seems...to have...escaped the...manuals I studied."

Determined to strike the blow to end this, Lynley raised his weapon again...and in doing so left himself totally unguarded, sure that Holmes was in no position to do anything but defend himself. A moment later, he became another of those who made the mistake of underestimating my friend and colleague...for instead of striking his own blow, Lynley suddenly found himself staring down at the neat slice across the stomach of his silk shirt...a thin line of red seeping through from where Holmes had almost surgically nicked him, causing the merest amount of damage that could be done.

"A hit!" I cried with a broad grin, taking advantage of my Shakespeare. "A palpable hit!"

"George!" a woman's voice exclaimed from the crowd, causing not only my head but several others to turn as Miss de Courcy darted from the crowd before remembering herself.

Viscount Lynley, who had seen his son's illegal actions, shot his eyes from the blond woman to his son; the stare he gave them was shamefaced and angry.

Holmes straightened and looked at the bemused bleeding man before him, his eyes flickering to the now knowing look in the Viscount's eyes. "I trust you are satisfied now, Mr. Lynley?" he enquired, before turning and walking back to us, as he nursed his stomach still, his expression somewhat rueful as he approached.

Miss Thurlow crossed over to his side as rapidly as decorum would allow her, taking my friend's arm and indicating a nearby chair. "You did wonderfully, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps you should sit for a moment?" she suggested with a tone that was utterly respectful and clearly admiring.

"Thank you, Miss Thurlow," he acquiesced with a nod, allowing her to guide him. "I believe I shall."

Following behind, I watched as he sank wearily into a chair. "Good show, old man," I congratulated him. "His actions were deplorable...utterly unsportsmanlike."

"Well done, sir..." The Colonel enthused, as he approached us. "A capital bit of fencing, some of the best I've seen. My apologies, my wife informs me that I missed your opponent's illegal action." He frowned deeply at that. "I would've awarded you the match had I known," he admitted, shooting a dark look at the young man across the room. "George always an arrogant boy...but he's become a complete cad this past year or two since he met..." He paused, as his eyes moved to take in Alexandra de Courcy, who was trying to melt away from the Viscount's glare. Turning back to Holmes, he shook his head. "These fencing awards you won, sir, were they at school then?"

"In a manner of speaking, Colonel," Holmes replied, looked up at him from his crouched position on the seat. "I spent a great deal of my formative years in France...in Montpellier to be exact. While there I took fencing lessons with Maestro Vigeant. Perhaps you might have heard of him?"

The Colonel's eyes widened considerably. "Arsene Vigeant? The headmaster of the newly refurbished Académie de Escrime? The famed fencing academy?"

"The same," my colleague confirmed with a nod, as he sat up slowly. "I was fortunate to attend his private school for a while whilst young. He was the best, and my father insisted on the best," he admitted.

The older man began to chuckle. "I should have opened a book on you, sir, and gotten myself some money for the evening."

Holmes smiled wryly, as he rose to his feet. "Oh I think there's been enough wagering for one evening, don't you, Colonel?" he replied, as Mr. and Mrs. Yeates approached him, and thanked him profusely for his actions, to which he demurred.

Miss Thurlow, for her part, merely watched the proceedings around her while keeping one rather protective eye on our mutual friend. Her expression was utterly inscrutable, even though I could almost hear the gears turn in her mind, however, upon catching my eye, she smiled ironically and made her way over to me.

"He said he fenced, but I had no idea it was learned at so prestigious a school," she said to me, her voice low. "And in France..." She sighed almost wistfully. "I have always dreamed of visiting there...but I never had the means. Now, I simply don't have the time." She glanced up at me and chuckled. "He is rather a surprising man...you think you have figured him out, but..." she trailed off with a shake of her head.

"Indeed, I have known him for some years now, faced life and death with the man, and yet, I know little about him personally," I agreed. "I knew he had a French grandmother...but not that he'd actually lived in France."

"Ladies and Gentlemen," came the loud voice of our host echoing off the high vaulted ceiling of the foyer, catching all our attention and focusing it on the seething Viscount. "I apologise for…" he glared at his eldest son, "the manner in which the contest was concluded. And I would like to take the opportunity to announce regarding the hunt tomorrow, that to avoid any more…foolishness…Lucifer's Playground will be off limits to all riders save the Hunt Master and hounds should our quarry divert there. Should that be the case, all riders will ride around the ridge and take up chase on the far side." His eyes took in the crowd as a whole. "Now…perhaps we should all repair back to the dining room to finish our coffee, and continue our evening?" he invited them, urging them back in, and stopping only his eldest son with a baleful look in his eye and clear gesticulations that made it obvious that he wished to speak to him alone immediately.

"It seems," I said, taking stock of the distant exchange, "that perhaps this evening has had one advantageous outcome. The scales appear to have fallen from the Viscount's eyes with regards to his son."

Holmes drew on his dress tails slowly, taking in the dark scowling visage of George Lynley as he trudged away to receive treatment in advance of his father's lecture. "With a personality as apparently vindictive as Mr. Lynley's, Watson, whether it is advantageous remains to be seen."

* * *

The following morning, Holmes and I made for Lynmouth under the guidance of our Mr. Cuddy, who exchanged much near unintelligible banter with Holmes on the subject of the previous night. 

On arriving at the station, the arresting Inspector, a man by the name of Barnsley, was so stunned by our unexpected arrival that he had taken us to the cell of the arrested valet before even thinking to ask why we wanted to speak to him. Sensing that any indication that we were second guessing his arrest would result in our Inspector becoming disobliging, I slipped into my most diplomatic of modes, and assured him that we were here for the hunt primarily, and were only visiting the valet, Pearson, to assuage some slight quirk of the Viscount's, which allowed the Inspector to believe that we too felt it was a mere foible of the aristocracy. Eager to find himself on the approving side of Sherlock Holmes, the Inspector afforded us a private interview with the valet, just as we hoped.

Albert Pearson, a man in his early forties, proved to be a most open and garrulous individual. Years in service had refined his accent, but his nervousness and eagerness to prove himself innocent to us allowed his cockney origins to slip through. He admitted without prompting his youthful involvement with a gang of housebreakers, having fallen in with them in an attempt to help pay off the debt over his mother's head when his alcoholic father had left them in penury. Hoping to avoid her being sent to debtor's prison, he had himself ended up in jail. His loyalty to the Viscount who had afforded him a rare second chance was obvious, and Holmes had to calm him when his indignation at the idea that he would repay his employer by stealing from his guests became too great to bear.

Pearson recounted his evening to us in great detail, starting with his laying out the Viscount's garments for the evening, and attending outside the dining room during dinner as he always did in case His Lordship required anything. During his time there, he confirmed what Phillip Lynley had said, that all the gentleman bar the Viscount had left the room at one time or another, of them, only Colonel Hapsworth and Mr. Yeates had not gone upstairs, the Colonel having left to fetch his cigarette case from his coat, and Mr. Yeates to head to the foyer and the front entrance for some air. Of those that had gone upstairs, Mr. Parry had been gone the longest, and was met on his return at the bottom of the stairs by Mr. Cobb, only to oddly head straight upstairs again, this time returning straight away with a bottle of single malt whisky he had evidently forgotten. When asked about the movement of the ladies, Pearson said that he could attest to their comings and goings, due to the drawing room where they had resided being located near to where he was.

On attending the Viscount once the ladies and gentleman had rejoined, he had made his employer's favourite drink, his lordship being so vociferous in his praise of his bartending abilities that he had demonstrated the recipe to the gentlemen as they had gathered around the bar to watch him, and that had been the last official action of his evening.

When the subject of his walk in the garden was broached, Pearson admitted to a bad smoking habit, something with which Holmes could entirely sympatise, and the valet recounted that as it had been a mild night, he had spent some time out there, until he had heard the furore at the house, and upon returning immediately, found all the servants being rounded up.

When asked whether only the servants had been searched, Pearson admitted that the Inspector had not seemed to consider the possibility of the gentry being involved, and besides at that point, they had discovered the necklace in the inner pocket of his uniform jacket, and his perplexed look as he recounted that was plain to see on his face.

"Mr. Pearson…" Holmes reached into his pocket, taking out his cigarette case, and offering the incarcerated man a Woodbine which was accepted eagerly. "Did you have your jacket off at anytime prior to being searched?" he enquired quietly, before lighting both their cigarettes.

"No sir, Mr. Holmes, sir," the valet replied. "As I say, it was a mild night 'n no mistake but not so mild as all that."

My colleague nodded as he took that in. "I see…so you never took it off to say…sit upon the ground…or use it for someone else to do so?" he enquired slowly.

"Someone else?" Pearson repeated with a frown. "I confess, sir, to being at a loss…I was alone as I say, there was no…" He trailed off, as the indignant look returned once more. "Sir!" he gasped, rising immediately to his feet. "I'll have you know, I'm engaged to a fine respectable young widow here in Lynmouth…" Though at the thought of her, his indignation died a little, and he sagged back to his chair. "It's bad enough that she finds me in this position." He glanced up at us. "I would never dally with another girl…Molly is the only one for me," he insisted, running his hand through his dark hair in misery. "I only hope that I have not lost her over this."

"I'm sure, you will not," I consoled him as soothingly as I could, touched by the man's predicament and what to me seemed sincere affection for his fiancée.

That sincerity shone through again, as he gazed up at us. "I have not the foggiest notion of how that necklace got where it did…and had I known it was there, sirs, why would I leave it there? I ask you! Even my short acquaintance with the underworld…damnation, even common sense…would dictate that I would hide it! Gentlemen, you must believe me, I did not do it!"

"No, Mr. Pearson," Holmes said, rising to his feet, and offering him his hand, "I know you did not."

* * *

On returning to Pendragon House, we found the place was a hive of activity. The riders from around the county had begun to assemble, those travelling some distance arriving with horse boxes and others from closer in on horseback, already dressed and ready for the hunt. It was a bright sunny morning, and the gathering was taking place at the back of the house near the stables, with breakfast being served for nearly a hundred people out there, hot food and tea along with spirits to keep everyone warm as conversation and preparation went on apace. 

Through it all, the Viscount in his red and the Duchess in her long black riding habit held sway, and the talk was of nothing but horses; for the time being the theft and all other goings on in the House of Lynley were quite put aside. Though we saw nothing of his brother, George Lynley was dressed and outside, a scowl on his face and intriguingly a light bandage on his right hand, as he mingled with the other guests showing off the new Hunter he had acquired specifically for the hunt. Lady Margaret was amongst those purporting to show great interest in the subject, and gave us a rather sneaky smile as we passed by with Cuddy in the dog cart, leaving us both with the impression that she was on some kind of reconnaissance mission, most probably hatched in conjunction with the redoubtable Miss Thurlow.

Martin and Lavinia Yeates were both present, and were receiving glares from Lynley that would have felled an entire regiment of men, such was the vitriol contained within them. Evidently, it was not Holmes that George had decided to take out last night's personal fiasco on, it was Yeates. Holmes's words about the vindictiveness of the likes of George Lynley rang in my ears...and the look that he was receiving from the young man was obviously having a similar effect on Yeates, who unlike his stoic wife determined to rise above Lynley's boorishness, seemed worried still.

Miss Thurlow was, of course, one of the few absentees...the other noticeable one being Claire Lynley, whom we had already spotted out walking the estate slowly climbing one of the ridges, perhaps seeming to head for a good vantage point. With everyone busy outside, Holmes didn't waste anytime in striking out for indoors as soon as we departed Mr. Cuddy's company.

Inside, it was the downstairs part of the house that was abuzz, as the servants worked at top speed to keep the new arrivals informed, provide all the services they could, and serve food and drink to those already here. It was in the midst of the hubbub that we spied Miss Thurlow above on the landing watching, and made for the upstairs part of the house quickly.

"Miss Thurlow," Holmes greeted her on arrival by her side, "I see downstairs is well occupied, might I assume from your presence here that things up here remain…quiet?"

A tiny, and may I say, almost mischievous smile formed on her lips. "Indeed," she confirmed in an equally low tone, nodding to each of us in greeting as she spoke. "And I have taken the liberty in enlisting Maggie for the role of lookout. Up until the hunt begins, should anyone from that wing make to return inside, she will immediately alert us and attempt to distract them."

"Ahh..." I breathed with a chuckle, "that explains the most charming conspiratorial smile."

She nodded, her own smile turning rather wry. "Not that I could have stopped her from aiding. She has a will of pure iron, I fear."

"And if I were to suggest you go to join her at this point, Miss Thurlow," Holmes enquired. "Would your will to remain be any the less unbending?"

I raised an eyebrow at what my colleague was getting at, and remembered what it was I had meant to say to her the previous night. "No indeed, Miss Thurlow," I said urgently. "You must not think of such a thing as remaining with us. It is one thing for us to get caught trespassing in another's room, we are what we are after all, but you are a lady and a guest of this house, you should not risk it."

Her jaw set in such a way, that I instantly knew that my words were of no avail. "I appreciate your concern, Doctor, and under normal circumstances I may indeed agree with you. However, the moment I was asked to send that telegram to you both, I became involved. If I can aid in this search, then I shall do so. Besides, time is short, and three pairs of eyes will accomplish the task much more readily than two." Her words were in the same soft voice, but there was such a strength and certainty to them, as well as an almost rigid element, that it made me wonder if this was the voice she used when faced with the board at her father's company or one of his foundations.

"Just as I suspected," Holmes said to me with a slight shake of his head. "Come, Watson. Miss Thurlow has an 'agenda' and there is little that dissuades a person of business from their agendas," he teased her, as he turned on his heel and began to walk down the corridor towards the guest wing. "You should know, Miss Thurlow," he informed her as he walked, "that our trip to visit the valet, Pearson, dispelled what little doubt I had that the man is innocent. He is guilty of nothing more than unfortunate timing."

"Indeed," she replied, moving briskly next to me, but having to take two steps to keep up with one of his long strides. "Have you formulated a conclusion how he came to have the jewellery on his person then?"

"I have indeed!" he responded with a tight smile, as he strode on. "And for the future of Mr. Pearson's engagement to his young widow, it is a happy occurrence that it does not feature a second female personage. I have questions for you, Miss Thurlow. Firstly, what do you know of Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parry?"

Her forehead creased a little in thought. "I confess, Mr. Holmes, very little," she apologised. "Only that they are friends of George Lynley's from London. Mr. Parry's father is with the Home Office…Mr Cobb…" Her brow furrowed deeper. "I believe his family is in shipping." She smiled a little, as she continued, "He went to Oxford with Mr. Lynley apparently, all though Maggie believes that he is not as well bred as he seems." She chuckled a little at Holmes's look. "I confess, Mr. Holmes, that Maggie believes that of most people, high or low born. She judges by manners rather than birth..." she explained with clear affection toward her friend, before frowning once more. "Besides, it can scarce be any other way if he's a friend of Mr. Lynley's given his outrageous stance on 'common' people."

"I see," Holmes pondered with a nod. "Let me ask you something else, Miss Thurlow. After the men rejoined you the night of the theft...the Duchess complained about their bragging giving her a headache. She did, in fact, seem somewhat peeved by their brashness. Might it be a safe assumption to make on my part that the Duchess's headache stemmed more from the fact that she was attempting to drive the conversation, only to be drowned out by the men?"

The wry smile once again appeared on her face, as she nodded. "Yes, I believe that is quite a safe assumption. Her Ladyship is most certainly the type of person who likes to lead rather than be led by a conversation. She had spent many a moment recounting various anecdotes as well as singing the praises of her late husband. It is most obvious that she misses him a great deal, for she spoke to anyone who would listen of the times they had shared, what he had given her, how he the best and finest of men..." She trailed off and shook her head. "I understand she is grieving, but..."

Holmes stopped suddenly by a door, and turned to her. "And during her outpouring of praise for the late Duke, did she talk specifically about the jewellery he had given her and her attachment to it because of him?"

I watched her eyes widen ever so slightly, as she began to follow, just as I was, where my companion was leading with his questions. "I do believe she did," she replied. "Though I must admit I took no notice at the time. She mentioned their quality, fineness, and worth...and some of the circumstances in which he gave them to her."

"Sentimental all, no doubt?" he asked. "Anniversaries, personal mementos, and the like?"

"For the most part, yes," she answered readily. "She was very proud of them and all aspects surrounding them."

"Then we have solved the mystery of the theft, and how the jewels ended up where they did," Holmes announced, as he turned to the door we were standing beside. "All that remains to ascertain is why it occurred in the first place," he said with the smallest of frowns, before opening the door to the bedroom, and marching into the room of Miss Alexandra de Courcy.

I could not contain my surprise as I followed in, checking to make sure that we had not been observed, before following my friend's movements as he moved further into the large guest room. "I don't understand, Holmes," I confessed. "As obvious and unladylike as Miss de Courcy is, are you seriously suggesting _she_ stole the necklace?"

"I am suggesting nothing, Watson," he replied, his eyes scrutinising the room carefully. "Miss Thurlow, would you kindly check the writing desk for letters or papers?" He pointed at it briskly with one long finger. "Miss Thurlow was quite correct when she suggested previously that the motivating factor behind all the events of her stay here was money. We have thievery, blackmail, and even adultery all driven by money."

"Adultery?" I queried with confusion, as the young woman quickly made her way over to the desk and began to methodically sort through the various papers on it.

"Most assuredly," Holmes agreed with a nod of his head. "I doubt that Mr. Lynley cares anymore for Alexandra de Courcy then he does for his wife. We are here not to prove her part in the theft, but rather to discover her role in how and why that theft came to be," he explained, as he moved to her bedside locker and began to search.

Frowning at Holmes lack detail about what was going through his mind, I nevertheless crossed the room to search her wardrobe on his instruction, drawing out her expensive cases and bags, and starting to look through them. After a good five minutes of some rather fruitless searching on my part, I heard a Miss Thurlow inhale sharply, and on moving to her side, I saw her reading through a letter, before with a smile and nod of satisfaction, she handed it over to me for my perusal. "Mr. Holmes," she called, beckoning him over. "I believe I have found your clue."

Indeed, she had. For I was reading a letter from the banking firm of Jasper & Wright that clearly stated that a loan that Miss de Courcy had been granted for some £6,000 some eight months prior was now in fact due for immediate repayment, and if it was not settled within the next couple of weeks, the bank would be forced to contact her father instead.

Holmes hastened from his post to take the letter, and scanned it quickly. "Nicely done, Miss Thurlow," he murmured. "Nicely done, indeed."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she replied, a rather pink hue spreading over her ivory cheeks.

"Six thousand pounds!" I hissed, my mind trying to place this latest piece of Holmes's puzzle in its proper place. "She is in severe financial distress," I theorised with the data we had. "Her father is her guarantor…"

"Ah ah!" Holmes held up a warning finger with a smile, and after a moment, I nodded slowly and began again.

"Her father is _apparently_ her guarantor…" I corrected with a slow smile. "Might she have taken the necklace after all...hoping to pay back the loan she had taken out? Driven to it perhaps because her father was somehow unaware of her having taken the loan despite his being guarantor? The necklace would certainly be worth something akin to that," I broached as a hypothesis.

"Or blackmail?" Miss Thurlow mused beside me. "This letter does seem to explain why Maggie heard her saying she would get her due. Perhaps she asked Mr. Lynley to pay back the loan money she had taken out, and used without her father's knowing, and he would or could not pay…and she threatened to expose their affair publicly?"

Holmes looked up from the letter, neatly returning it to its position where Miss Thurlow had taken it from, and flashed me a quick smile. "You're coming along, Watson. Not quite right...but not quite wrong either," he replied, before turning his attention to Miss Thurlow, to whom he gave a respectful glance. "And an admirable and logical connection, Miss Thurlow. Though again a little off the mark. Take your data and reconsider…taking into account that their personal relationship does not seem to have ended as it would have done if Miss de Courcy was merely blackmailing him into paying her debts...there is a little more for you to uncover yet," he said to both of us, but before we could say more, he was back across the room tidying up what he had disturbed and heading for the hallway again. "Onwards, ladies and gentlemen."

Stepping out into the hallway, he suddenly took a sharp turn right, heading for the family quarters. "We have seen the mistress...now to attend to the wife," he told us. "While I easily ascertained our fellow guests' quarters, I took the liberty of enquiring of one of the servants last night which were the suite of rooms belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Lynley." He stopped by a set of large double doors, and opened them. "Time to take a closer look at another lady's jewels."

Moving into the room, Holmes gauged the layout of the suite, and led us into the bedroom of Claire Lynley, his eyes scanning the room until they fell on the dresser and the jewellery box thereon. Stopping by the dresser, he bent and touched the ground, his fingertips bringing up something like shards of porcelain, and upon glancing around, found a discoloured damp patch on the carpet which he also tested with his fingertips, before sniffing them lightly. Rising up with a slight frown on his face, he turned his attention back to the box, though on trying it, it proved to be locked.

"Damnation," Holmes muttered, before turning in the direction of our female companion with a light frown. "Your pardon, Miss Thurlow," he said swiftly, inclining his head in apology for his swearing in front of her.

"No offence taken, Mr. Holmes, I assure you," she replied, frowning at the box herself.

Reaching into his coat pocket a moment later, he extracted a set of jemmies or lock picks that left my eyebrows in my hair. "Holmes..." I murmured, "you don't intend to break into it, surely! What on earth do you expect to find in that poor, unfortunate girl's jewellery box that will tie in to the case?"

However, my colleague bent over and began to work on the small lock. "It's what I expect not to find, Watson..." he replied, narrowing his eyes in concentration. A few seconds later, with an alacrity that made me worry for all the secure locks in my rooms in Baker Street, the lock popped open, and with a satisfied smirk Holmes opened the jewellery box, which was quite full of some splendid pieces of jewellery, despite my friend's apparent expectations.

But rather than it fazing him, Holmes's smirk remained where it was, as his hand delved into the jewels on display, and, taking out one fine looking diamond brooch belonging to the young heiress and unfortunate bride of George Lynley, he held it up to the river of sunlight that came through the nearby window. "Paste." he announced quietly, and put it down, picking up another and another, each one getting the same conclusion. "All paste...and all forgeries..." he concluded, as he rooted through the box. "Give or take one or two of the smaller items."

"Just like Mr. Lynley's cravat pin," I breathed, remembering Holmes's retort at dinner the previous night.

"Exactly!" Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. "All forgeries...pretending to be otherwise."

"Forgeries…" Miss Thurlow's eyes lit up, as she looked up at me. "He's been selling them off, and replacing everything. Selling his wife's jewellery, his own valuables, probably some of the estates goods if he can…" She turned to my friend. "Even borrowing from his mistress!" she exclaimed. "She's not blackmailing him…she just wants back what she gave him before her father finds out."

Holmes frowned a moment later, as his hands touched something in the box that was not jewellery. Drawing forth a crumpled piece of paper, he unfolded it, and his frown deepened. "Ah…I had assumed that only Mr. Lynley knew these were fakes," he said of the jewels. "However why hide _this_ in your jewellery box where your husband might delve...unless you knew he no longer had any interest in either its contents...or you?"

He handed us the paper, and on opening it again, I read it aloud, "Worry not...you will have your due and more. She will not stand in your way much longer...her usefulness is at an end. I will..." I paused for a moment. "There is a bad spelling error here," I noted. "It must have been discarded for a fresh one."

"And found by Mrs. Lynley," Holmes concluded. "It appears Mr. Lynley is as blasé about his written mistakes as he is about his personal ones."

"It looks fresh," I noted. "The ink I mean."

"Poor Claire," Miss Thurlow whispered beside me. "To be married to such a man...to be brutalised, cuckolded, and to have all she has stolen from her and used for his debauched ways."

"It sounds as if he means to put her to one side..." I hedged with a frown, thinking on his reported brutality, "one way or another."

My friend nodded in agreement. "It may well be that Mrs. Lynley is operating under the same opinion now...as you say the ink is new...a few days at most." He reflected on that for a moment. "We should speak to her," he said briskly. "Ascertain what she knows about her jewellery collection and how long it's been since her husband exhausted that avenue for funds." He turned to me after closing the case and leading us all back out into the main room. "She was up near the first ridge, was she not? Setting to watch the hunt?"

With a nod of my head, I began to move through the room, when I noticed a display cabinet to our right, that was ornately decorated, glass covered, and unlocked. Veering towards it as we walked towards the door, I stopped dead when I noticed what was in it. An entire collection of knives and pistols from around the place...but what attracted my attention most of all was a beautiful, hand carved, mahogany box which lay open inside, exposing the thick purple velvet...and the indentation left there by the gun that should have been occupying its place, but was not. "Holmes," I said quietly, drawing his attention to it.

As he and Miss Thurlow turned back, I gazed at them with anxiety. "Everyone has their boiling point," I murmured, "even the timid. Perhaps...just to be safe, we had better move to talk to Mrs. Lynley quickly."

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Hello there! Okay all, the conclusion of the mystery, but not the tale, will be up next week sometime. :D However, I hope you all continue to enjoy this latest chapter! Thank you all again for all the reads and/or reviews, we appreciate each and every one. Grins Okay, to answer a couple quick questions: 1) That snaffu on chapter four has been corrected, thank you Lady Razorsharp:D 2) The Jack Russell terrier was actually a cameo of sorts of my esteemed colleague's own pet. She has a JRT, though in reality is nothing (apparently) like Prince. And we had major grins on the Mrs. Bucket analogy. We both love Hyacynth, so that gave us quite a pleased chuckle. 3) Our teaser...was exactly that...draw your own conclusions, as we are more tight lipped than the most devout secret-keeper. Plus, my co-writer has threatened me with blackmail should I divulge any secrets...heh. Well I have to fly! Thank you again to all, and see you later next week! Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**


	7. The Lucifer Hunt Part Three

_Chapter Seven: The Lucifer Hunt – Part Three_

On leaving the family wing, Holmes, Miss Thurlow, and I made for the front door, stopping outside to look at the ridge in the distance where Holmes and I had earlier spotted Mrs. Lynley walking alone. Dressed in pale blue, she had been an easy target to see on this bright day, moving as she did against the hills; now though, there appeared no sign of her.

"Holmes," I said, looking from the ridges overlooking the estate back to him, my tone slightly incredulous, "you don't think such a quiet timid little thing as Mrs. Lynley would consider shooting her husband in plain sight of an entire hunt? She would be hung for certain."

"If shooting him _is_ what's on her mind," he replied. "I doubt that the idea of being hung bears so much as a featherweight's importance to her considerations, Watson." And with that, he began to walk purposefully towards the hills, his new gaiters being employed for the first time in earnest. "Her life is a misery...and unless I miss my guess, from the broken shards of chinaware, the spilled perfume, and the bandage around Mr. Lynley senior's hand, last night, it was made more miserable still after her husband's return."

I heard Miss Thurlow's sharp inhalation of breath beside me, and could see as she struggled to keep up with us, that her face had darkened and grown even more set at the thought of what Holmes was describing. "What if…" she queried as she ran along with us, "I mean I may just be conjecturing, but seeing as there are two who share those rooms, what if Claire was not the one who took the revolver? What if it was her husband? He was after all, as you just said, in a foul mood last night."

"Unlikely, for it does not fit with what we know," Holmes concluded after a moment. "Apart from myself, George Lynley's most likely target, after last night humiliation, would be Martin Yeates. And Lynley's vindictiveness and cowardly streak would far more likely take a longer lasting and more personal avenue of revenge. Namely, he would merely destroy Yeates's life with the information he has on him. He has no need to kill him when he can ruin him. No, Miss Thurlow, not Lynley…but there is another suspect for our missing weapon..."

Her mind did a rapid calculation, before she glanced sharply over at him. "Phillip Lynley!" she exclaimed. "He was not at the preparations for the hunt!"

"No, he was not..." my friend agreed with a nod. "And who would have been more likely to check upon the welfare of Claire Lynley this morning in her rooms, knowing better than all others what she suffers at the hands of her husband. After seeing his brother's manner last night, he would, I'd venture to say, have known that something would have occurred behind closed doors. What if he arrived at her rooms this morning to find that his brother's excesses with his wife had reached new depths?"

Moving swifter still, he continued, "Philip Lynley is undeniably in love with his sister-in-law...we have seen it before time and time again. A man in love, especially a young and earnest one, will smite anyone for the protection of the woman he loves, heedless of his own safety. Mrs. Lynley should, as etiquette demands, have been helping to host the breakfast this morning; instead, she was out wandering the hills. Hiding her injuries? Or seeking the one who plans to avenge them?"

"Perhaps..." I paused, glancing at our companion. "Holmes, perhaps with guns in play, it might be best for Miss Thurlow to remain here?" I suggested.

"No..." he disagreed with a quick shake of his head. "I'm loathe to bring any woman into danger, Watson...but on this occasion with Mrs. Lynley involved one way or another, I believe it will be advantageous to have a gentler, more feminine hand at our side. Miss Thurlow may be able to reach and comfort her in ways we, as members of the gender she must by now mistrust greatly, may not."

"I would very glad to assist you in any way I can, Mr. Holmes," she replied with a grateful tone, her expression showing that she would not have gone so easily.

Walking quickly onwards, we climbed the steep ridge that Cuddy had brought us in by yesterday afternoon. From the top, all of us a little winded, we stopped and gazed around. "Look," I pointed, "the hunt has begun!" Away to our left, we could clearly see the large mass of horses spill outwards from the stable yards, the sound of hunting horns echoing across the verdant landscape, as the hounds led the way in search of a scent, the trotting riders behind them.

"Yes, and nary a sign of our own quarry," Holmes returned, searching around the area for any sign of Mrs. Lynley. "Lucifer's Playground..." he said quietly after a moment, staring from the end of the ridge to the next one, below which the blasted piece of earth was located.

My brow furrowed at that. "But Holmes, why should either she or Philip Lynley go there, if they meant harm to his brother that is? The Viscount clearly stated that the hunt was not to go through there...even if the fox did."

"Because both Mrs. Lynley and her brother-in-law know Lynley better than anyone else alive," my friend responded. "They know his petty, vengeful mind and how it works." His eyes narrowed and glinted in the cold sunlight an instant, before he set off quickly. "Hurry, Watson, Miss Thurlow…one way or another, George Lynley will be at Lucifer's Playground this morning, and if he is there so shall they be…I'll wager twenty guineas on it!"

Crossing the ridge and beyond to the secondary one, we moved to the area above the blasted piece of twisted desolation that was Lucifer's Playground and peered down upon it. Even now with the full beam of a bright sun shining down upon it, it seemed bleak and unfathomable beyond words. The sound of the hunt was now in full flow with the hounds baying, and shouts carrying the distances to us easily on the early afternoon air, as the hounds and riders wheeled across the countryside towards us. "They have the scent of the fox..." I noted, "and it's coming this direction."

We watched as the hunt followed the red dash of the fox, clearly visible to us out in front leading them all a merry dance as it shot ahead of them. At first, it seemed as if the fox was to head straight for the Playground, but as it reached the ridge on the far side, it veered off taking the following swarm around with it. I noted that Miss Thurlow's expression as she watched the red furred animal fly by was one of sympathy, and with a shake of her head she caught my eyes on her. "The other reason I am not fond of riding in hunts, I fear, Dr. Watson. My sympathies lie too much with the animal," she explained, as we began to move towards the desolate patch of land.

The hunt poured past the mouth of the small narrow valley, containing the hunt as we carefully descended into the steep vale. No pathway down existed here, so while we moved as fast as we could, we had to keep in mind the terrain and Miss Thurlow's skirts. And so it was when we were but halfway down and still overlooking the area, Holmes stopped, and pointed with a frown. "Look!" he called to us, as we halted behind him. "Look, there!"

As the tail of the hunt moved past, two riders broke from the ranks, veering off in our direction. The horses were almost wedged together, so close were they...almost as if they had been glued together.

"What are they doing?" and an aghast Miss Thurlow asked.

"Fighting," my colleague replied, his eyes narrowing at the sight. "No doubt the culmination of much baiting."

Peering closely, I could plainly see he was right. The two riders were locked, free hands wrangling and batting at one another with crops and fists...as the horses broke apart at last and barrelled on in the direction we were in. We did not even have to wait to see their faces to know from the size and shape of both men who it was thundering towards the wasted wood.

"Lynley and Yeates." I shook my head, stunned at their foolishness and at how Holmes had read his man right once again.

"Dear God, they are going to get themselves killed," our friend breathed, her grey eyes wide with worry.

"Whatever provocation was simmering last night has risen once again tenfold, doubtless well planned by our Mr. Lynley. Father's decree or no, he intended to force Yeates hand and have his way. It's rare to encounter so petty a mind…even amongst spoiled aristocracy," Holmes murmured, watching as the two riders thunder onwards. Before we could move even another ten feet down the slope, they were at the Playground's mouth, and, shouting obscenities at one another, crashed into the gnarled wood and were obscured from view. Holmes immediately took off...but not downwards, rather across the slope, heading for the far end of the blasted area, leaving us to follow as quickly as we could. However, by the time we reached the edge, nothing had emerged.

With a furrowed brow, my friend peered down at the bramble enclosed covert. "The terrain inside must be tightly packed and overgrown," he commented. "Far more than I would've thought. Even given for poor terrain, horses under such expert riders surely would have..." However, before he could finish, a horse and rider burst from the end of the wasteland, and ploughed onwards, the rider tossing flotsam from him as he went.

"Yeates!" I exclaimed with no small pleasure. "Well..." I continued with a smile, "Lynley's lost his God forsaken wager!"

"Lavinia will not be pleased all the same," Miss Thurlow said softly beside me. "She was most adamant that her husband not go into the Playground."

I could not help but chuckle, so pleased was I to see the arrogant man proven wrong. "Well, he's emerged none the worse for wear it seems, and he's proven his point to Lynley...and taken his money to boot no doubt. That is if the bounder lives up to his word...she may let him off lightly."

"Where is he?" Holmes voice intruded on us, his hawkish eyes watching the ground below avidly as he ignored our chat.

In the distance, at the far end of the narrow valley, the hunt hoved into view again, having wheeled around to the other entrance on the discovery of the loss of two of their riders...and precisely which two riders they were. We could see Mr. Yeates riding on towards them, before gradually slowing up and stopping upon meeting them, no doubt engaged in some kind of conversation as to what happened. And yet while all this occurred, his co-rider and challenger still failed to emerge.

"I have a very foreboding feeling about this," Miss Thurlow said anxiously beside myself and Holmes, and as if to punctuate her words, an instant later, there was a rustling noise, and the sound of hooves, followed by a horse breaking through and free of the waste ground.

Unlike before, however...there was no rider aboard.

Holmes was gone like a bullet from a gun...leaving me to help Miss Thurlow down the steep slope as best I could. Scrambling downwards, half slipping and sliding his way, and even tumbling once or twice, my colleague reached the bottom and made for the clearly spooked horse, which was darting around wildly, its whinnying loud and aggressive. Seeing the hunt beginning to start down the narrow valley floor towards us, he left the animal to their imminent care and turned, before moving into the undergrowth, and calling us on after him.

Finally reaching the bottom of the rift, and on entering the Playground, we were immediately struck by the halving of the light, so dramatic it was that we both stopped completely, our eyes needing to readjust themselves to the other worldly twilight we had just stepped into. The twisted canopy of branches which looked so impenetrable from above had precisely the effect we thought they would have under them. The end product inside was one of constant dusk with the sun only penetrating here and there in bright lines of sunlight striking the ground here and there. In those spots would grow tiny spots of greenery amongst the blackened earth...for everything else was either bare black ground, walls of woody brambles, or rocks and boulders covered with mosses and lichens as such a gloomy place would dictate.

There was no sound to speak of...no birds that we could hear. The silence was such that when a rustling in the undergrowth that mostly consisted of the twisted briars occurred, it was a slightly unnerving sound. Despite myself, Cuddy's words came back to me and as they did I could easily imagine this place being full of malign spirits and creatures. Beside me, Miss Thurlow swallowed and tried to keep a brave face, but I could see this place did not sit well with her either.

We could see the churned up ground where first Yeates's horse and then Lynley's had passed through the narrow gap in the briary undergrowth, obviously having to leap a boulder further back to do so...and as we made our slow way through the uneven, rocky, thorny terrain, I shook my head at the madness of racing through here. "I withdraw my earlier remark..." I said to Miss Thurlow, as much to hear a sound in that dead place as anything. "Lavinia Yeates was perfectly right to be as concerned as she was...to ride through here is sheer folly!"

"Indeed," she agreed in a low voice.

We had taken but five more steps, when Holmes's cry echoed through the shaded, unpleasant wood, bouncing off the boulders and distorting the direction terribly. "Watson!" he called again, and, taking hold of Miss Thurlow's hand, I moved as quickly as I could...now wishing I had brought my own revolver into this blighted place. Our progress was hampered by the briars, which almost seemed to reach out and grab hold of our clothes, with Miss Thurlow's dress by far the worst affected, so that we were both cut and torn by the time we arrived into something of a clearing, and skidded to a halt at the sight of Holmes kneeling over the prostrate, woody debris strewn body of George Lynley, lying face down on the ground.

"Oh no," Miss Thurlow breathed at the sight. "Is he...?"

"Dead." My friend stood, wiping the earth from his hands. "Quite dead...a wound to the neck...the jugular vein...he lost consciousness and bled to death while we waited for him to emerge."

That our lady companion neither gasped nor swooned at that came as no surprise, as I, and indeed my companion, had learned early on in our associations with her that she was made from sterner mettle. "He was a horrid man, but I would not wish this fate on anyone," she murmured with a slow shake of her head, as she moved forward to join Holmes with a sad but resigned look on her face.

My colleague regarded the floor of the clearing with a frown. "Watson, examine the wound, will you? I'd be interested to know what you think, he asked, his eyes moving around the place. "You'll note he's face down. Raise him up if you must, but leave him back where he lay...the police will no doubt appreciate it."

With a nod, I moved across the forest floor, as off to our left there was the sudden sound of horse's hooves taking off. A moment later, we could hear the rumble of yet more as the bulk of the hunt arrived at the entrance we had come in by. Ignoring it, I crouched down to the young man's body, and raised it up to peer down at the mangled throat of George Lynley.

"What say you, Watson?" Holmes asked after a moment. "No bullet wound, eh?"

"Indeed not..." I concurred with a shake of my head, "if anything, it appears to be a stab wound."

"From what? Can you tell?" Holmes paced across the ground, before bending down again, his hand skimming the ground without touching.

"Hard to say..." I responded, examining the wound closely and noting it was relatively clear of blood, as most of it had dripped to the ground. "It's deep but it is a torn, jagged wound. It passed right through the neck of his cravat…it could have been made with a broad serrated knife, I suppose."

"A hunting knife?" he quizzed, still peering the ground.

"Perhaps..." I concurred, as I lowered Lynley back to his resting place. "But whoever did it was obviously taller than our man here. The blow was deep…very deep and straight in, so the assailant must have stood in height a good deal over him. The tearing is lighter, indicating it came on being drawn out. There is the beginning of bruising on either side where the hilt must have landed…it was a most violent strike, Holmes."

"That accounts for most of the men here," Miss Thurlow pointed out. "And indeed, Mr. Yeates was taller than Mr. Lynley as well."

Holmes rose quickly to his feet. "Miss Thurlow is perfectly correct. Given the size of Mr. Lynley that unfortunately hardly narrows our field much." His eyes took in the ground and the body again. "And our friend was not stabbed upon his horse, so there is no balancing of height to be gained that way."

We both stared at him for a moment, before Miss Thurlow enquired, "How do you know he was stabbed upon the ground?"

Holmes pointed to the ground he had been examining. "The ground is soft here, as it is with most wooded earth…there is an indentation, a fresh one, and one consistent with the fall of a man Lynley's size…which would explain the forest debris upon the back of his hunt jacket, when he lying dead upon his front, exactly where he fell."

I nodded, as I pictured the events that occurred. "So a struggle, a fall, and then the stabbing."

"It would seem so…" he replied with a frown. "Except…." His eyes fell to the floor, again searching for something amongst the scuffed up ground. "Watson...Miss Thurlow," he said after a moment, "the hunt is upon us...I'd be obliged if you would inform them of what has occurred and keep them from trampling over everything here." Bending his head, he perused the dented, hoof torn ground again, pointing again at the indentation some few feet away from the body of Lynley. "There are things here I don't want disturbed...not yet. Let only his father, wife, and brother enter...though I somehow doubt the latter two will be amongst our visitors."

On hindsight, I should have expected what followed next. As, as soon as we emerged and word broke as to what had occurred, and after the Viscount had fled into the copse to confirm the dire news, the hounds were not the only things baying for blood. With the large following of Lynley's friends in the group, and the shocked and distraught Alexandra de Courcy, it was not long before the accusations flew, and Martin Yeates was wrested from his horse by irate men claiming him a murderer.

It took the intervention of the Duchess of Monmouth and the timely re emergence of the diminutive rotund Viscount from the wood, smaller seeming even than before and ashen faced on seeing his dead son, to restore order to proceedings. "Your Lordship, please!" Yeates called out, as he struggled against those who held him. "I swear to you George lived when last I saw him."

"Be silent!" Lynley's friend Parry, one of those holding him, barked at him. "You have done enough!"

"I have done nothing!" Yeates railed. "I have no clue what might have happened to him! Lavinia will tell you! George taunted and barracked me every step of the hunt when it started…he threatened..." he paused, "he forced my horse into his as we reached the valley ,and veered us in here. He struck me…taunting me until finally I gave him his way!" He gazed around wildly at the gathered crowd. "Once we were inside, we jostled again, for the wood is narrow and difficult to navigate, and were neck and neck, until we burst into a clearing and collided once more. George lost control of his horse, and it reared…he fell…I rode on…when I looked back, he was on his feet. He was fine…I swear it!"

Miss Thurlow and I exchanged glances as Holmes's preliminary deduction proved in keeping with Yeates's words, but even as Martin Yeates pleaded his innocence and ignorance of what had happened, after that, his wife in tears beside him, he was roughly trussed by the hands, and ridden back to the house on the orders of the Viscount, where the police were to be called.

Miss Thurlow spent much of her subsequent time calming the now almost hysterical Mrs. Yeates, who firmly stated over and over that her husband could not possibly have hurt Lynley. That he was competitive when provoked yes, but that to hurt someone was simply not in his character.

The Viscount, visibly keeping himself restrained, took note of Mrs. Yeates's state, and turned to her comforter. "Miss Thurlow," he said, his voice low and shaking, "perhaps you might be...be so good as to take...my son's horse..." He glanced at the now contained animal. "And ride with Mrs. Yeates back to the house?"

"Of course, Your Lordship," she acquiesced with a soft, consoling smile, before gazing warily at the horse, as Mrs. Yeates got back on her steed, and then over at me askance.

With an encouraging nod, I walked over with her to the horse, which had quieted down considerably, and glancing at its rump, I could see that it had taken quite a thrashing, as could Miss Thurlow. "It seems..." I said quietly, "that Lynley was set on winning this duel...and was no more successful with his heavy handed tactics then the last time." I gave her an encouraging smile. "The horse should be fine," I told her, and stood back to help her mount it.

She continued to appear most unsure, as she climbed onto the animal, her lack of recent experience riding rather obvious, as was her expression, which clearly showed her desire to be off the animal. However, for a moment, her expression flickered as she fingered the reigns, holding her thumb and forefinger outwards and peering at them keenly, even going so far as to bring them to her nose.

"Are you well, Miss Thurlow?" I solicited of her state, looking from her to the weeping Mrs. Yeates again.

She glanced down as though distracted from a deep thought, and nodded. "Yes, everything is fine...well...almost..." She paused, glancing down at the horse, and then over to her charge, before returning her attention to me once more. "I shall see you both when you return?"

"Straight away, I'd warrant," I replied with a nod. "Ride slowly and safely, and you'll be fine."

"I shall," she murmured, and after gingerly nudging the horse into motion, both she and Mrs. Yeates headed back to the house.

* * *

I waited with Holmes for a while, until he sent me on my way, saying that the police would be swarming here soon enough, and he required some solitude as he felt strongly there was something he was missing. On heading back to the house, I was in time to see Martin Yeates be manhandled into the stables by George Lynley's friends, and was only barely so to stop what was sure to have happened next, reminding the group of fellows with sundry sticks and whips in their hands that the police would shortly be there and would be interested to know how Mr. Yeates got into any…difficulties…should he show up the worse for wear. 

There were some tense moments, choice words, and leery looks, the latter passing especially amongst Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parry, but common sense prevailed, as did I upon a few stout, local yeomen, who were there for hunt, and had no grudge against Mr. Yeates, when I asked them to guard his makeshift cell. On returning from the stables, I saw Holmes make his way back down the slopes and across the gardens towards me. His hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, a cigarette lit and leaving a trail of smoke behind him, he was the picture of contemplation, and it was plain to see that whatever it was he was missing, he had not found it.

On glancing up and seeing me, his expression turned to sheer exasperation. "Watson, it is the most annoying thing in the world to place all parts of the jigsaw neatly in order, but to miss the final one that would complete the puzzle. Far better to have it half finished then missing that one small item." He sighed and turned his full attention to me. "Where have they put Yeates?"

"In the stables," I said, before recounting to him Yeates's words about what had occurred within Lucifer's Playground with Lynley, and how events seemingly fell in line with his theory, as well as informing him of the lynch mob that had been forming.

Taking this in, my friend slowly nodded. "Well done," said he, patting me on the shoulder. "And the police?"

"They are on their way, Mr. Holmes," the soft, melodious voice of our friend answered him, and we turned to see Miss Thurlow emerge from the house. "They were called for immediately upon our return."

"And Claire Lynley?" I asked of the still missing pair. "Or Philip…have they been sighted?"

She heaved a great sigh, as she joined us, shaking her head in the negative. However, there was a slight light in her eyes. "No...they have not been sighted, however, Claire's maid was most forthcoming. It seems the pair have...run off."

"Run off?" I repeated with astonishment.

"I told you, my dear fellow, that I thought it doubtful we would see either of them," Holmes said, seeming unsurprised, before turning his eyes back to Miss Thurlow for the rest of what she had to say.

She sighed once more. "Where to start...well, it seems our assumptions on whether Mr. Lynley took his...frustrations...out on his wife last night were well founded. For he beat her, the worst beating she's had, her maid said. So after her husband left early this morning, she fetched Philip to see to her mistress...and it seems Claire finally agreed to his suggestion to leave with him. So while the women packed, Philip apparently took the gun for protection, well that is what he told her maid, and then left to get his horse. Her maid said before he departed she heard them speaking of something they had to do before they left."

She paused and took a breath. "Now that the maid has heard of Mr. Lynley's death...she fears that perhaps the torment and fear was too much and that either her mistress or Philip may have...well...found a more permanent solution."

"Perhaps…" Holmes nodded. "There was no doubt they were at Lucifer's Playground."

"They were?" I asked. "But we did not see them."

"No...but we heard them...or rather the horse they were on when they bolted for home," my colleague replied.

"Ah..." I breathed, before nodding as well. "The single sound of hoof beats before the hunt arrived in earnest."

"No doubt heading to where they had stashed their belongings, as the events at the Playground affording them the chance to slip away unregarded," Holmes agreed. "The question remains though as to what hand they had in this...if any? It seems more likely than ever they made their way to Lucifer's Playground to confront Lynley...for they must have known with his nature, he would never have rested while they were out there. But..." He slid his hands back into his pockets with a frown. "If they did do this, then they did not use a gun...and showed all the fleetness of foot of one of Mr. Cuddy's Will O The Wisps. For I could find no trace of another's footprints save George Lynley's on the ground…all though the earth was badly churned up by hoof prints."

He paused for a moment, before turning his eyes to me again. "Watson, was Yeates in possession of a knife of any description when taken in?"

"Nothing on him," I answered. "He was well searched by that mob, of that I can assure you. Nor did I see any traces of blood on him when he was taken, besides a few scratches to the face which were clearly caused by the thorns in the wood." I paused for a moment. "Of course, he may have discarded the knife."

"Mr. Holmes?" came the respectful voice of the butler behind us. "His Lordship would very much like to speak to you."

"I expected as much," my friend intoned, before turning to us. "Watson, Miss Thurlow, when they arrive, exercise all your considerable powers of diplomacy and persuasion to keep the police from taking Mr. Yeates into custody if you can. Tell them to keep a detail guarding him if they must, but that I asked them to concentrate their efforts on the fleeing Lynleys. There are stones yet to overturn in search of this one final piece of the puzzle..." he instructed, as he moved up the steps.

* * *

When Inspector Barnsley arrived later, we did as asked, and after much flattery and persuasion, he did what was requested of him. Holmes spent a great deal of time with the Viscount, while the guests were cleared to leave and the mass exodus began. On emerging from his talk with the distraught father, Holmes met with the Inspector, and Mr. Cobb, Mr. Parry, and the pale Miss de Courcy, who I had seen wandering the halls of Pendragon house in the aftermath of Lynley's death bewildered, were all asked to remain in the house for the time being. 

Claire and Phillip Lynley proved as luckless in their flight from Pendragon as they had been in their stay there, and only another two hours had passed by, when they were escorted back into the foyer of Pendragon House, miserable and dejected.

On their arrival, as Miss Thurlow, Lady Margaret, and I emerged from the drawing room where we had been seated with the gravely silent Duchess and her beloved pet, the Viscount burst from his study, his customary whip in his hand, and before anyone could stop him, accosted his younger son.

"Fiend!" he roared, his tiny frame no deterrent to his attack as he whipped his son soundly. "Cain! That you would plot against your brother so!"

Miss Thurlow gasped beside me, her eyes widening at the display, and took several steps forward. "Your Lordship! Please!" she entreated, as several of us moved to young Lynley's aid. However, Phillip Lynley made no attempt to fight back, and it took myself, Holmes, and the butler to stave off the attack on the tall, young man, his father's size much like his deceased elder son, belying his strength. Pulling him back, we restrained him as his grief manifested itself as rage.

"You have always envied your brother...always!" he growled. "His sporting prowess, his popularity...his way with the ladies...even to his own wife, sir! His own wife!"

"Yes...his wife!" Phillip returned, turning around slowly as his father's words echoed through the vaulted room and died…his own voice in contrast was quiet and controlled. "I have always envied him his wife...but then, I have always loved his wife, Father...even if from afar, as you well knew when you arranged the match between them."

That particular revelation took most people within earshot by surprise, myself included.

"The match was made with the family, and that was that!" the Viscount replied. "She was always a better match for your brother than you. He was the heir to this estate and she to hers!"

"He was a brute, Father," the young man fired back, and moved to his sister-in-law, whose head was bowed, her scarf to save her hair while travelling outdoors, obscuring her reactions to this exchange. Gazing at her tenderly, the young man reached up and touched her face, encouraging her to look up, as he turned his own face back at his father. "And you were blind, Father...look at what your better match brought about," he continued, stepping back to show the black and blue contusions and swellings all over Claire Lynley's face and neck.

"In Heaven's Name!" the Duchess gasped from the drawing room door.

"You poor girl." Lady Margaret's heart felt sympathy followed, as the now widow blushed under the collective gazes, and lowered her head again quickly, as she leaned into the younger Lynley for protection.

Like her friend, Miss Thurlow appeared torn, and knowing her as I did, I was sure every instinct in her was driving her to go and comfort that poor woman, but she was also keenly aware of this being more of a family moment, and so she held back, though I could see her outrage flare as she took in the mass of bruises. The Viscount's struggling slowed and ceased as he took in his daughter-in-law's battered visage.

"Please don't pretend you didn't know, Father," Lynley 's voice echoed around the marbled foyer. "I told you often enough, and saw you turn your eyes away from the bruising peeking out from her sleeves or gloves…you cannot abdicate your part in this," he said coldly, while the petite woman beside him flinched at the reminders, as she seemed to shrink more within herself.

Another quiet gasp emanated through the foyer, and I caught sight of Alexandra de Courcy, her handkerchief to her mouth, her red rimmed eyes staring at Claire Lynley and what her erstwhile lover had done to her...a fleeting glance, perhaps, of her own future with him had it come to pass crossing her mind.

"I never cared that he was your favourite..." Lynley said to his father, his arm going about Claire protectively. "You were affectionate enough to me...I cared only that your favouritism went so far as for you to turn your eyes from all his failings...and, Father," he shook his head, before glancing at Miss de Courcy, "they were legion."

"But were they enough to warrant his death?" His father's whisper crossed the space to him. "For you to kill him?"

"I...we...did not kill him, Father," young Lynley answered him, taking Claire's small hands in his, as he straightened. "Though I will not deny that we went to Lucifer's Playground to face him down...and had he raised a hand against either of us, I would have done what was necessary to protect us." As if on cue, the arresting officer produced the missing gun and handed it to the Inspector, underlining Phillip Lynley's words perfectly.

"We went to tell him we were going, and to warn him off us...we knew he would not let us rest. I was there to threaten him with what he knew of what he'd done," he explained.

"What he'd done?" The Viscount frowned. "You mean to Claire?"

"No, sir...for the law is not sufficient...not sufficient at all to my mind to protect a wife against the machinations of a drunken or vicious husband...no sir...for his embezzlement against the estate and most particularly that of Claire's." Phillip raised his chin as he saw his father's building objections to the accusation. "And before you say more, Father, I have proof enough."

"Yes, he does, Your Lordship," Holmes cut in. "And further proof myself, the good doctor, and Miss Thurlow, all have seen." Holmes eyes went to Miss de Courcy, whose face immediately turned away.

"Indeed, we have," Miss Thurlow agreed, glancing over at me.

"If that was not enough to keep him away," Lynley continued, "then..." He drew himself up. "Then, I would have done what was necessary to protect Claire. But...as it happened, we never had the opportunity to face him." Pausing, he frowned in the recollection. "We saw them come...Yeates and George...just exactly as George had told Claire he would do in his blind rage last night after you admonished him for his behaviour. We intended to catch George's attention, but they moved too fast through the wood...we followed on the other side, and then heard a crash...and then yelling...and then subsequently a short cry..." Lynley recounted. "I tried to make my way in from the side, but the undergrowth was such that the briars were almost impenetrable...by the time I got close enough to see anything...all I saw was you Mr. Holmes making your way in...and I knew my chance to talk alone with George was gone...and with the hunt closing in, I knew we had to leave...that the commotion over George's foolishness would give us a chance to slip away..."

Reaching into his pocket., he continued, "I drafted this note to send to George from Portsmouth...with my knowledge and threat if he should follow us...I wrote it just before we left...I…I did not know what had happened to George."

Holmes walked across to the young man. "May I see it?" he asked, taking it as it was offered to him. On reading it, he nodded. "It is as he says...an explanation and a threat...dated and timed to this morning after the events at Lucifer's Playground...not proof per se...but certainly believable." He looked at Phillip Lynley, as he handed the note to the Inspector for his perusal. "And backed by the fact that from the location of where you must have been when we heard the horse carrying you and Mrs. Lynley away, no one could have penetrated the wood, just as you say."

"Portsmouth?" the Viscount repeated, staring at his son. "You were planning to flee the country together?"

Mr. Lynley took a long breath, before answering. "I...I planned to locate Claire with some friends of mine in France, to give her time to recover." He glanced at her, and then back at his father. "I would have you know, sir, that your daughter-in-law is blameless in all aspects of this. She never encouraged me in my admiration for her, certainly not after her wedding, and it was I who convinced her to leave George. She knows of my feelings for her, but she has never responded, and has at all times been a lady in her behaviour." His voice faltered a little. "I do not deny...I had...hopes...but I know too that being the brother of the man who maligned her so...would not have made it easy for her to..."

He cleared his throat to continue, but the lady in question placed a hand on his arm, a soft smile on her lips as she shook her head, needing no words to convey her feelings towards him, before blushing and lowering her eyes. However, she did not remove her hand from his arm.

Phillip Lynley looked down at her with the sudden amazement of any man who had finally realised something akin to a dream and even with the soberness of the circumstances, a small smile could not help but touch his features before he dragged his eyes from her and turned them to his father. "In any event, Father...I would have taken her there, and stayed to protect her, yes."

"Chivalry is not lost to the Lynley line yet, Maxwell," came the quiet voice of the Duchess once more, her admiration for her younger grand-nephew's actions evident.

"Chivalry or murder, Your Grace," voiced the Inspector suddenly. "Despite Mr. Holmes's thoughts...it remains to be seen which yet." Approaching the younger Lynley, the gun in his hand, he enquired, "Mr. Lynley, you say you heard a crash?"

"Yes, Inspector Barnsley," he replied with a nod. "We both did."

"And _then_ yelling?" the Inspector continued, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes, sir...George's voice raised," the young man responded dutifully.

"Did you hear what he was saying?" came the rapidly fired question.

"It was muffled, distant...but it sounded like a threat about crossing him...and teaching someone a lesson," Lynley answered. "And then...then I heard the cry as I said."

The Inspector folded his arms. "Your brother?"

"It's hard to say...but yes, I believe so," the young man agreed with a nod.

"It was him," whispered Mrs. Lynley. "It...it was awful..." She shuddered, and turned her head away.

The Inspector nodded and looked towards Holmes. "Well, sir," he said, "threats and shouts of 'crossing him,' I don't know about you, but I believe it is looking rather bad for our other suspect. Constable!" He turned to one of his men at the door. "Take another man, and go prepare Mr. Yeates for transportation to the jail at Lynmouth." The police man looked at young Lynley and nodded. "And I'm afraid, sir, for the moment...you'd best come along too."

That appeared to be too much for the young mistreated woman beside him, who swooned, and would have fallen to the floor if her brother-in-law had not caught her quickly. As several people, including Lady Margaret, the Duchess, and Miss Thurlow moved swiftly to aide Mr. Lynley with the young woman, a chorus of voices were raised in disapproval at the police inspector's decision.

Holmes turned to him. "Really...Inspector, arresting two men on the same murder charge?"

The other man shifted uncomfortably. "They might have colluded," he ventured with more bravado then conviction.

"Unlikely," Holmes replied. "Unless they are spectacularly bad at communicating. And given that you already have one innocent man languishing in your jail, I don't believe your reputation could take the addition of others."

"Innocent?" Inspector Barnsley raised a bushy eyebrow. "Who?"

"Mr. Pearson, Inspector." My friend sighed, as he crossed over towards myself and Miss Thurlow as we attended on Mrs. Lynley. "He is completely innocent of the crime of which you have convicted him."

"What? But the man was caught with the goods on him!" the officer bellowed. "_Can_ you prove your words?"

"Indeed, I can Inspector...just as I hope to settle this unfortunate matter with George Lynley once and for all...if you will allow me a little more time?" Holmes asked.

The Inspector's moustache twitched, unsure of all this, and not overly keen, I would have said, on the feeling he was being undermined.

"Oh come, come, Inspector!" The Duchess's strident voice rang out. "Don't be ridiculous; do as you're asked!"

The police officer blinked. "Your Grace?"

"Time!" She tapped her cane impatiently on the floor. "Give the man some time!" she demanded, before arching an eyebrow. "Or must I write a letter to my cousin in the Prime Minister's Office?"

Coughing lightly, as yet another member of this family showed their adeptness with threats, the Inspector nodded. "Very well, Mr. Holmes...till sundown, eh? Then we need to get the body of the deceased and whatever suspects we have back to town."

Nodding, Holmes beckoned myself and Miss Thurlow to him. "Miss Thurlow, Yeates's and Lynley's horse, which stable were they left in when you got back...and can you take me there?"

"Yes, of course," the young woman agreed, patting the now roused lady's hand, and rising to her feet, beckoned us to the door, intending to lead us out.

We were about to leave when Holmes's attention was caught by the rapid departure of Miss de Courcy, and Miss Thurlow and I found ourselves following quickly when Holmes changed direction and took us upstairs after her. On knocking on her door and receiving the word to enter, Miss de Courcy gazed upon us from where she stood with her maid, discussing when they might leave. Sending the servant out, Miss de Courcy, her icy cool demeanour long shattered by the day's events, turned to face us.

"What would you have of me, sir?" she said, raising her aristocratic chin, while doing her best to regain her poise.

"We would have an answer, Miss de Courcy," Holmes said pointedly, stepping inside.

"And why would I tell you anything, Mr. Holmes, when you helped drive poor George to his death?" she responded turning away.

Holmes shook his head slowly. "Come, come, dear lady, you are hardly so blind and without intelligence as to believe that. You know enough of your late paramour and his behaviour to know that no one drove him to anything save himself and his own foolish, unchecked desires." He moved further into the room, and we after him, Miss Thurlow closing the door behind us. "No, rather he drove others to his desires…including you…to the tune of some six thousand pounds, a quite considerable sum for an heiress who has yet to inherit."

Miss de Courcy turned in outrage, her eyes going immediately to her desk where Miss Thurlow had found the banking letter. "How dare you invade my privacy, sir!" she flared up in anger, only for my friend to incline his head in acquiescence.

"My apologies, Miss, if you wish to press charges, the Inspector downstairs, I'm sure, would do his duty," he replied. "And I will have my day explaining the situation regarding why I was there and…what I saw…to the court, assembled press, and public which would no doubt included your esteemed father, of course."

Whatever the blonde beauty had planned to say next died in her throat, as the proof of our deduction regarding the true circumstances of her loan from the bank with the fraudulent use of her father's name was writ large across her face, and staring at Holmes, she sank back to her chair like a stone.

"What am I to do?" she whispered, "My father will be incandescent that I borrowed against my inheritance and used his name to do so." Her eyes were fixed down on her lap, her hands wringing with agitation. "George begged the money of me…told me it was to aid in…in repaying what he'd taken secretly from this estate to pay off his gambling debts so everything would be above board when he began the process of…of his divorce. Something that was to have occurred months ago." A moment later, the bitter tears of regret and realization of longstanding foolishness that so often come when a woman deludes herself so began to pour down her cheeks. I am sorry to say, I had no feelings of empathy for the woman…older and more worldly then the deceased Lynley, she had allowed herself to be swayed by a scandalously unrestrained passionate nature and played for a fool. Her behaviour had earned her this disgrace.

My friend merely nodded. "And when you finally realized George was no nearer that task and that the bank was looking for the loan to be repaid, you demanded its return and his following through on his promises to you…your 'due.' A snippet of your conversation on which was overheard by Lady Margaret," he said of Miss Thurlow's friend.

She looked up to us, all trace of bravado eclipsed once more. "What can I do now? He is dead…the money is lost to me. Even if the scandal of our affair was to be hushed up, the bank will call time on this loan, and it will all become known."

"I suggest," said I, without particular pity, "that you throw yourself on the mercy of what I hope is an indulgent father."

"That is, of course, unless the Duchess chooses to press charges." Holmes said, moving to stand by the window that looked out over the lake.

Miss de Courcy swivelled rapidly in her chair, her riding habit still on her. "_Charges?_" she exclaimed. "But I had nothing to do with George's plans…" She trailed off, as she realised what she'd said.

My colleague turned back to her, and shook his head as she dropped hers. "Worry not, Miss de Courcy, you have revealed nothing that I did not already know. I know the why, how, and who of the robbery…all I would ask you, and for your answer I will intercede on your behalf with Her Grace, is to confirm to me that Mr. Cobb, like Mr. Yeates and Lynley, went to Cambridge and was a friend of both, and that his family business would have had a part to play in it."

Swallowing slowly, she nodded. "Yes…to the first and I would imagine so to the second…if history is any judge. No doubt Mr. Cobb's uncle Lord Mount's business would have been utilised, unbeknownst to His Lordship."

Walking briskly back through the room, Holmes inclined his head. "My thanks, Miss de Courcy. I would say that you are free to go…I shall do as I say and speak to Her Grace…I'm inclined to think in the circumstances that charges will not be pressed on this matter, but you have worries of your own to attend to, and your presence here will be even less appreciated when the truth goes out.." He bowed quickly, and left with us following.

"If history is any judge?" I asked him, as we walked back downstairs to the front door.

"You have all the pieces now, Watson, Miss Thurlow…" he replied, before stopping on the stairs and looking back at us behind him. "Surely you can assemble how the night progressed, and how it was Mr. Pearson ended up indicted?" he challenged us, before turning to Miss Thurlow. "But as you do so…Miss Thurlow, as you promised, take us to the deceased's mount."

Taking us around the house to the stable yards, our young companion cast a glance at the two constables organising Mr. Yeates's transfer to the house, as she led us past several other stables to the large one she had disembarked at. When we reached it, we found our Mr. Cuddy lounging against the wall in the declining sunlight chewing on his tobacco.

"Genlman…Miss. Turbul business, turbul." He shook his head on our approach, spitting the juice to the cobbles at his feet. "Didden I tell yez tha' place was Hag-rod," he said, nodding in the direction of the distant wood. "An now it's reaped its latest soul! Eee mark my words on it, um ghostisiz be after adden to thur number with Maister George!"

The grizzled man's brow furrowed, as he recollected, "He wur a likeable nipper, a righ' lil eller, sporty like, wi' a smile as broad as a summer day…till hiz Mam up 'n died. Went off the rails summin' turbul affer tha'. Iz Pa indulged he far too much…spoiled he…'n he turned into a noggerhead 'n cow-baby to boot."

"Noggerhead?" asked Miss Thurlow.

"Cow-baby?" I queried almost simultaneously.

"Fool and coward," Holmes translated reflectively, as Cuddy nodded. "From happy, mischievous child to that. A parent's affection and good intentions gone wrong."

"A good drubbin' wi' a gad when he wur younger woulda saved a world o' woe when he grew up…especial fer his wife like." He looked back out over the countryside. "Tha' which lives in Lucifer's Playground knew what wuz comin' to him…and took him." He sighed, and spat again. "It kilt him dead sure'n I'm standin' here."

On opening the large stable door for us, Cuddy stood by and watched as Holmes walked in and glanced around. The stable was a large one, holding some thirty horses or so.

"Where is Mr. Lynley's horse?" my friend asked, peering down the row of stalls.

"Theez all be Maister Lynley's horses," the other man replied, garnering a look from all three of us. "Aar…'Rabians, Irish bred, even un of um fancy whi' horses from Austria tha' prance like. Maister Lynley allus buyz hunters and racers too like thurs no tomorrah…" He spat on the ground on realizing his words. "If yiz'll pardon the 'spression," he apologized. "Anywuz…this be the horse thee be seekin'." He pointed toward the horse that I recognized as the one George Lynley had been riding.

Entering the stall, Holmes eased his way towards it, calming the highly strung animal, as well as noting the same welts I had observed earlier, and moving past the animal, he stopped by the saddle and bridle which were hanging on the wall. A frown creased his brow on examining them. "These have been cleaned already."

"Aar…" Cuddy agreed with a nod. "Stable boy's allus do a quick job 'n Maister George's things, too affeared not too. Force o' habit, I'd say."

"Blast!" Holmes breathed, shaking his head in annoyance. "I should've given instructions!"

Moving after him, and noting the objects on the wall, Miss Thurlow coughed. "Mr. Holmes..."

"What were you looking for?" I asked, taking a closer look.

"Blood..." he muttered with an irritated expression. "Something to give an extra clue to the angle of attack."

"Mr. Holmes?" she voiced again. "I don't want to intrude, but as you are looking, I thought you should know...that earlier, when I was riding the unfortunate beast back to the house, I noticed that there was a greenish substance on his bridal." She frowned, as she thought back. "However, I did not see any blood."

Holmes stared at the bridle and reins for a moment longer, before turning his head in her direction. "Describe it," he demanded.

"Well...it was green...powder like...a definite moss like smell to it. It could have been the residue from lichen, I suppose," she replied, her brow furrowing further as she recalled the memory. "But I must admit, I am not sure."

"Lichen...where?" he asked her, turning to face her. "Specifically on the bridle?"

She nodded quickly in reply, her curiosity most evident on her face. "Yes...I do not recall seeing it on the saddle. Do you, Doctor?" she enquired, turning her eyes to me.

"No..." I answered with a nod. "I recall seeing it only on your hands."

"On your hands..." Holmes repeated, quickly moving to her. "So not just the bridle...but on the reins!" She nodded in reply, as she watched his actions keenly. There was no denying the sudden light in his eyes, as he took several paces out from the stall and through the stable, his brow furrowed, his hands moving in stages through the air, and then sweeping down in an arc, the signs of his mind turning over and re-sorting pieces until finally he snapped his fingers. "Miss Thurlow..." He swung back towards her. "I believe you've uncovered our killer."

Her wide grey eyes blinked slowly. "I...I did? How? Who?" she stumbled, appearing rather shocked.

His eyes, alight with the anticipation of a case resolved, turned towards us both as he smiled with that air of pride in his own achievements. "Mr. Cuddy would you be so good as to fetch us a dog cart and take us back to Lucifer's Playground?"

* * *

Some fifteen minutes later, we were on our way with Cuddy at the reins and Holmes seated across from Miss Thurlow and myself. My friend's mind was clearly fixed ahead of him and in the direction of which we were heading, while we sat staring at him and waiting for him to speak. Looking back at us as we waited respectfully, Cuddy removed some of the tobacco juice from his mouth in his usual accurate way, and sniffed at the silence. 

"Dang I…" He shook his grizzled head. "Awrigh,' Maister Holmes, be ye gonna sit thur like a mommet, whilst we be waitin' on ansurs?" he admonished him. "We be waitin'! Out wi' it ! 'Ave you done detectorin or baint you? Wha' d'ye know?"

Both Miss Thurlow's eyebrows and mine rose at that, though I confess we concentrated more on our attempts not to laugh at the unaccustomed forthrightness with which Holmes was faced. The urge to laugh, as so often the case, made worse by the tenseness of the situation, and in an effort to hold hers in, Miss Thurlow leaned towards me, while watching Holmes glance up at Cuddy in surprise.

"What's a mommet?" she murmured, the smile if not on her face, definitely evident in her voice.

"A statue," Holmes replied before I could begin to deny the faintest clue, a smile tugging at his own lips. "And you're quite right, Mr. Cuddy. We've prevaricated enough."

"Aar …tha ' you 'ave…" The other man nodded confidently, another dart of tobacco juice striking the ground we travelled over, before he looked back at myself and Miss Thurlow. "Wha' be…prevarigated…then?"

The snort of laughter that indelicately emerged from my lips does me no credit in so grave a situation, and earned me a reproving look from my friend. On my explanation, Holmes sat back and began, as we jaunted towards the deep narrow valley in the distance.

"Let us take what we know for certain," he said. "George Lynley was taking from all around him, the estate, his wife, his mistress…all no doubt to fuel several habits as extravagant as his lust for the collection of prime hunters. He did intend to put his wife aside in favour of Alexandra de Courcy of that we can be sure. He had bled her dry, and though the marriage had brought land to the match, land was of no use to the spendthrift George, and Claire Lynley's inheritance in capital terms was small in comparison to that his mistress would come into. Miss de Courcy was to be his next font of cash, as the dowry she would receive on her marriage would be considerable."

"So…" Miss Thurlow ventured, "when Margaret overheard Miss de Courcy demanding her due, it was for both money and the position of his wife he had promised her and had not yet set in motion. Only he had no way of paying her back."

"Save one…" I added. "The fortuitous arrival of his great aunt and her celebrated collection of jewels."

"Precisely…" Holmes agreed, "and to Lynley's great good fortune, or so he thought, he had precisely the instruments within the house to organise the theft and disposal of not only his great aunt's jewels but those forged items of his wife's which were no doubt also due to disappear that night…saving him any awkward explanations come a divorce."

"But why weren't they taken?" Miss Thurlow asked with a frown.

My friend smiled at her a little. "For the same reason the jewels of the Duchess ended up in the pocket of Mr. Pearson…an attack of conscience and fear on the part of our cracksman…Mr. Yeates," he explained, before leaning back as we watched him.

"Mr. Yeates?" Miss Thurlow breathed, leaning forward. "A professional thief? But he's a gentleman…and comfortable…surely from what you say, Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parry were much more conspicuously active that night."

I smiled, and shook my head, as I turned to her. "Forgive me, Miss Thurlow, but I suspect that if Holmes is correct, the lack of conspicuousness on Mr. Yeates part was probably what made him a good cracksman."

"A cracksman and a man with a keen understanding of the art of misdirection," Holmes agreed. "It has been obvious for some time now that this is what Lynley has been holding over Mr. Yeates with regard to his 'pre marital nocturnal activities' as he euphemistically called them. I remind you both, that Mr. Yeates, like you Miss Thurlow, came from an impoverished background of nobility…though while you turned to the honourable profession of the seamstress to survive as best you could, Yeates did not give up his comforts, and found himself a more lucrative method of maintaining his position and saving face amongst friends all through his college years. Taking advantage of the social position he held and the houses he was invited to to line his pockets with the belongings of those that could afford it, no doubt until he finally made the honest money that has made him comfortable today."

She nodded slowly, as she took that in. "And Mr. Cobb aided him…using his uncle's shipping firm to send the items abroad for sale? George, as his best friend, found out about it and said nothing."

"Until this visit, yes," my colleague confirmed. "Yeates had obviously tried to put his past behind him, especially upon meeting and marrying his wife, a woman of obvious high moral standing…and one as you quite correctly pointed out Miss Thurlow, to whom he is devoted. Hence his discomfort on discovering Mr. Cobb was here and his avoidance of him. He was doubly stunned, no doubt, when his best and, he thought, most trusted friend then used his knowledge of his past to blackmail him into stealing his aunt's necklace and wife's jewellery, though probably neglecting to tell him the latter was paste."

"So he baited him openly…" she added, "and while we thought he was speaking of past affairs with women…Lynley was repeating the threat brazenly and openly, proving his willingness to do it to Mr. Yeates until he agreed."

"But…where does Mr. Parry come into it?" I queried, turning back to my friend.

Holmes gave me a wry look. "Ah, the handsome Mr. Parry…tall, strapping, a charmer with the ladies…the perfect distraction for an unusual guard."

"The maid!" Miss Thurlow exclaimed rather loudly after a moment, and clasped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. "That is…" she continued, her cheeks flushing a pale shade of pink, "Her Grace's maid…if she had only stepped out for her handkerchief as she said, there was no possible way she could have been gone long enough for anyone to break into the Duchess's safe. He must have coaxed her away to…oh..." She trailed off, dropping her eyes, her blush growing deeper as she realised what she was intimating. In front of us, Mr. Cuddy let out a loud raucous laugh, and made several comments which served to pinken our demure friend's cheeks even further.

"Yes," Holmes agreed, attempting to hide a smile at our companion's quiet embarrassment. "The Duchess was quite correct; her maid is a flighty girl, and no doubt terrified of losing her position should she confess the true length of time she was away and why. In her absence, Mr. Yeates, who seemingly had not gone upstairs, slipped into the foyer beyond the dining hall and through the serving door built into the wall there, which leads to the backstairs. On seeing Mr. Parry entice the fair maid away, he had the time he needed to open the safe and take the one item that would cover George's debts…before he was to go to the Lynleys' room and take her jewels."

"Only for his conscience to get the better of him…" I said, seeing where his deductions had led. "He thought the jewels were real, and no doubt felt that Mrs. Lynley had suffered enough as it was, having seen her with her husband by this time. So he returned with just the Duchess's jewels…"

"And then…" Miss Thurlow continued for me, her smile returning as she remembered what occurred next, enjoying the reconstruction of the evening complete with answers, "the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in time to hear the Duchess wax eloquent about her husband, his generosity, and how she treasured what he had left her. His conscience pricked him again…as well as fear of discovery, as the Duchess left then to return to her rooms and he knew that the theft would be discovered."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I added, "Suddenly a youthful past stealing from the rich seemed a good deal less embarrassing, than the risk of being caught stealing from a bereaved widow whose jewels were amongst the most famous in the land, and therefore most difficult to pawn without being traced back."

"So he panicked." The young woman frowned in thought, until light dawned on her face once more. "His magic act! That's what you meant by his having a keen understanding of misdirection!" she said to Holmes. "Using the slight of hand he had shown…possibly when Pearson was showing the gentlemen how to make the Viscount's drink…he secreted the jewels on his person without his knowing it…and settled down. After which, Pearson left to go out into the garden, where he remained until the police came, and found the jewels on him!" she finished triumphantly.

Holmes's smile grew wide. "Excellent, Miss Thurlow," he approved, causing her to smile happily at him before remembering herself and dropping her eyes, the slow blush returning to her cheeks. "And so our case of theft comes to a close…Mr. Pearson exonerated."

"But, Holmes," I asked with concern. "How do we prove it? We require one of them to confess, and Yeates has allowed an innocent man to languish in jail in Lynmouth for the past few days rather than do so."

"Yes…I know," my friend agreed. "Of all his actions, that is what does not reflect well on Mr. Yeates. He is a gentleman, far more than his deceased friend, and truly repentant of his past, that much we can clearly deduce. But his fear of discovery and the loss of his wife and position have allowed him to act badly in this regard. However, I think as he sits there under the careful guard of the Inspector, knowing he is innocent in the death of George Lynley, he is coming to realise just how Mr. Pearson is feeling…as well as to the value of honesty. I believe that he will do the right thing and confess his part in it. If he does not…" he said lightly, gesturing towards the dark wood which we were drawing up to, "then I will merely tell him I can prove his innocence, but will not until he does confess."

He opened the door as we stopped and jumped down, before offering Miss Thurlow his hand. "However, I have faith in Mr. Yeates…I believe ultimately he will do the right thing…and probably be surprised by the response he receives."

"Forgive me…but _can_ you prove it?" she asked, stepping down and slowly drawing her hand from his as she looked up at him. "His innocence I mean?"

"Why, Miss Thurlow!" Holmes replied with an arch look that belied his amusement. "You wound me to the quick." Grabbing one of the lanterns off the dog cart, Holmes bade us follow him, which we did save Mr. Cuddy whose wary beliefs about the spot would not allow him to venture in.

The wood was darker than ever as the sun declined, and the Exmoor landscape was once again bathed in that mystical golden half light that for all its beauty failed to penetrate this bleakly begotten spot. Lighting the lantern, Holmes sat it on a nearby boulder as we walked into the clearing, Lynley's body thankfully removed by the police after their examinations.

Moving to the far side of the clearing, Holmes paced back and forth quickly, as he following the hoof marks on the ground. "The two horses burst in," he narrated, his eyes on the ground, "but one here…" He paused, as he pointed to the tracks, one clearly ahead of the other. "We saw the welts on Lynley's horse…a new Hunter, at that stage Lynley clearly brought the crop down again, only this time the new horse rebelled," he said, moving to the part of the earth that was badly scuffed up. "The horse reared several times, until Lynley was thrown…" His finger moved to the indentation he had pointed out previously. "At that point, Yeates looked back from beyond, and saw Lynley pick himself up gingerly, while his horse bucked and reared…riding on, he left him."

Holmes turned swiftly to point to the far side of the bramble filled wood. "That is when Phillip and Claire Lynley were to bear audible witness to George's death."

"The shouts they heard," I said, nodding in remembrance. "They were at the horse, not Yeates!"

Holmes smiled grimly. "Yes, done while George made the fatal mistake of raising his crop again to the horse, and attempting to subdue it by force…furious at his fall and the loss of face." He turned again to face Miss Thurlow. "That is where your eye for observation comes in, Miss Thurlow." He pointed at her, and strode over to pick up the lantern.

"The horse reared to avoid the blows…" He demonstrated, standing to the side of the nearest tree to the marks. "Its reins catching on the lower branches…" Walking forward, he reached out and touched a willowy branch just below shoulder height on him, that jutted out from the front of the tree parallel to where we stood, and whose leprous bark was mottled in the extreme. "The reins and lead rein wrapped around it…"

"The lichen," Miss Thurlow stated, moving closer across the wood and alluvium deposits at our feet, as my colleague illuminated the clear scrapes along the branch where the green algae and fungus had been removed from the patchy bark.

Holmes grasped the branch firmly in an approximation of the reins. "The horse shied away from him, pulling back…" he continued, stepping backwards, and drawing the branch back, and, as he moved, we both inhaled slowly as on doing so, on the far face of the branch unseen to us until that moment, was a long, thin, flat spike of wood, the bark of which had been stripped from it entirely.

On its pale surface were the unmistakeable red brown spots that so clearly denoted dried blood.

Moving towards it rapidly, I peered at it closely. "Our blade," I whispered, my gaze moving from it to Holmes, who nodded and indicated for me to step away as he pulled it further and further back, the willowy nature of the branch allowing it to bend almost level with the trunk of the tree.

"Lynley, paying no attention to anything but the horse, stepped after it…and then the reins slipped from the end…and…" Releasing the branch, the bough shot back with incredible force, and I cringed imagining the force of the blow as it struck the young man's neck. "The initial hit stabbed straight in. The follow through caused the tearing as it came out…the impact of the hit sent Lynley reeling backwards…spinning away, he cried out, a cry his wife and brother heard, and fell to the ground." He stepped to the spot where George Lynley's blood still covered the earth.

"Dazed and choking from the blow and lack of air going to his brain from the severing of the jugular vein, he would've passed out quickly," I said. "Even trying to get up would've hastened unconsciousness."

"I searched for blood spots elsewhere on the ground but there were none…Lynley's cravat took most of the blood off the spike when ripped through it. I only searched the ground, never thinking to look up until Miss Thurlow mentioned the lichen." Holmes turned to her and inclined his head in thanks, garnering a small smile, though her discomfort at our surroundings was clear.

* * *

On leaving Lucifer's Playground, we returned to the house where Holmes and I fetched the Inspector and brought him back to the wood. By the time we returned, word of how George Lynley had actually died had spread, and Inspector Barnsley gave the order for Yeates to be released. As Holmes had hoped, the young man did the right thing, and, drawing his relieved wife aside, confessed to her his past. 

Mr. Yeates, as many men do far too often, had underestimated his wife, and while we were not privy to the exact details of what transpired between them, an hour later they stood together in front of the Viscount and the Duchess while Mr. Yeates confessed his part in George's plan…noticeably omitting the part that Mr. Parry and Mr. Cobb had played in it. The Duchess when asked by Holmes whether she wished to press charges declined to do so, wishing no further scandal to come to the family.

Despite this, Yeates's past still hung over his head, and Mr. Pearson still languished in jail, causing Holmes to speak privately with the young noble and his wife. The outcome of the talk was an agreement, whereby Yeates, with the Duchess's endorsement, would go to Lynmouth and confess to Inspector Barnsley that the theft had been a jape that had gone wrong, and he had not confessed due to a 'falling out' fear of it being taken seriously…the worst he would be expected to face would be a sanction for wasting police time and causing false imprisonment.

No doubt, Inspector Barnsley, who was not privy to the dealings going on at Pendragon but was perceptive enough to be aware of at least some of them, did not believe a word of it, for the man never struck me as a fool. But with the Duchess backing the young man's statement and neglecting to press charges, he had little choice but to accept Yeates's confession and release Pearson.

Yeates's restitution for his actions, past and present, did not end there. Mr. Pearson was given a private apology and a hefty donation towards the fund for his impending wedding. In addition, Holmes asked for a private confession of all his previous actions and the insistence that he make restitution in full to all his victims, even if it was done anonymously. As my friend said afterwards while we packed, there was little point in sending such a man to jail, and ruining his life and his wife's. It would garner them nor his prior victims anything. By making restitution, he would accept the blame for what he had done, and provide the victims with recompense, even if done in secret.

Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parry received similar talks from Holmes, though more succinct and more in the form of a warning. Both being told in no uncertain terms, Mr. Cobb in particular, that their families would both be told of their actions in full should their behaviour continue…and he took particular pleasure in letting them know that now that he knew of their actions it was simplicity itself with his network of informants to keep a close eye on them. Needless to say, both left the house in a hurry.

* * *

Holmes and I packed and left the following morning. Pendragon House had slipped into mourning, all though the awkwardness that prevailed was palpable, as the family was divided on how saddened they were by the passing of the heir to the Lynley estate. The Viscount retreated greatly inside himself once the dealings with the theft and his son's death were done, and it was the Duchess who unsurprisingly took charge. 

As Claire Lynley was indisposed, recovering from the manhandling she received at the hands of her deceased husband, Lady Margaret Sotherby volunteered to stay at Pendragon to help both her and the family as best she could, with Miss Thurlow naturally electing to stay with her friend. But on our arising to catch the early train back to London, we found our young friend dressed and ready to accompany us on the long journey through the early morning mists that lay over Exmoor that Sunday morning.

This time we were afforded the luxury of the Viscount's personal carriage and a team of horses, and made better time back to Barnstaple, though I confess to missing the openness and ease of viewing of that beautiful part of the world the dogcart had allowed us. I even confess to missing Mr. Cuddy's free and easy ways, and made a note to talk to Mary about taking a holiday in this part of the world once we were wed...a topic now the case was over, I found my mind turning to with increasing regularity.

As we travelled and talked, I also made a note in my mind to speak to my fiancée about the interactions of my two companions. I had seen Holmes 'work' with many young ladies over the course of a case...but the manner in which they discussed the events of the last few days, and talked about discussing it even further on their mutual returns to London when Miss Thurlow was due to visit me, took me by surprise, I confess. And as we arrived at the station, I could not contain the feeling that my Mary would make much of the way Holmes had taken to Miss Thurlow's continued company. For myself, I was pleasantly surprised at his attitude towards her, and I confess not a little relieved that she had held up so well in his estimation during the investigation. Her friendship both to me and increasingly to Mary meant a good deal, and having Holmes think well of her made it quite a bit easier.

As we said our goodbyes at the platform, and I watched the easy manner in which Holmes bid her adieu and her far more relaxed and confident manner with him, and despite my repeated warnings to myself to never again to build my hopes in regard to Holmes and a woman, a twinge of intrigue at what increased meetings between the two might bring passed through me...at least until Holmes admonished me for daydreaming while Miss Thurlow was trying to say goodbye. With both teasing me about my thoughts being on my bride to be, we boarded the train...and with the figure of Miss Thurlow receding into the morning mist as the train departed, my mind did indeed turn from a woman whom might just be good for my friend to the one who I knew was good for me.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Greetings and Salutations! I heartily apologise for the lateness of this chapter, but must beg patience once more when it comes to updates. I have now completed my move, but am to be married in less than a month, and with the wedding and honeymoon (which I have been strictly told there will be no computer access at that time)...chapters may be slow going till July. However, we have the next two roughly done, so I expect I can get those out by the wedding. :) And now to questions and comments...thank you all to all who have read and/or reviewed. We really appreciate the feedback and knowledge that everyone is enjoying this story and appreciates the research that goes into it. (Bows to co-writer on the research front) We are trying to keep Holmes and Watson as in character as possible, and it warms us to no end to hear we are succeeding. Now, as for this being a romance story...um...yes. It is...I admit it! Watson and Mary are very romantic, and we would cordially like to invite you to their wedding! Yup, chapter eight is the marriage of our intrepid duo. As for Holmes and Helen...who's to say really...I am not going to confirm nor deny...though I am curious to know what the readers think. That said, I must go and unpack some more...we hoped you all enjoyed the conclusion of our mystery arc, and look forward to seeing you at chapter eight! Hugs to all... Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	8. Dearly Beloved

_Chapter 8: Dearly Beloved…_

_March 7th, 1888_

"Now you _have_ remembered the ring..." a decidedly nervous Dr. John Watson asked of his companion, while checking the straightness of his cravat for the sixth time in the last four minutes, as the brougham hired for the day pulled away from the door of 221b, and rumbled that Thursday morning down the street. "And the license...you did remember the license, did you not, Holmes?"

"Would this be the same licence I displayed to you in our rooms and once again at the front door as we waited for the carriage to pull up?" Holmes enquired, seated calmly across from the agitated groom-to-be, casually brushing some lint from the dove grey trousers of his morning suit with his matching grey gloved hand.

"Yes...right...of course," the older man fumbled, checking his own morning suit for any lint or markings, before glancing at his pocket watch. "Oh no! We're going to be late!" he gasped, appearing as though he may hyperventilate. "Mary's going to think I'm not coming!"

Holmes sighed, and withdrew his own pocket watch, opening it sedately. "Watson, I will remind you that the wedding is scheduled for eleven forty-five...not eleven thirty. It is now precisely eleven twenty-seven..." He glanced out the window to ascertain their position. "We are but five minutes away from the Registrar's Office. Rather than being late, we shall in fact be early."

The doctor nodded, and tried to relax, though his hands were constantly fumbling with his gloves. "I'm sorry, old man. It's just...well, it's just..." He sighed with a shake of his head. "You think I would not be so anxious. It is not as though I've never been wed before!" he lamented. "Only...it's Mary...and she's...so special, wonderful, understanding, kind...not that my sweet Constance was not any of those things...but Mary..." He trailed off, and gave his friend a lopsided smile. "She is one of a kind."

Holmes folded his arms lightly, a trace of amusement touching his lips. There were times when Watson's unabashed devotion to and worship of the female of the species...and Mary in particular...was sometimes irritatingly romantic and naive to him, and while the part of him that was a bachelor to the core could not help but think that his friend was on his way to foolishly giving up his freedom, he knew that Watson was the sort who needed someone like Mary like the air that he breathed. He adored her, and she made him happy. So for once, Holmes found only tolerant affection in reaction to his friend's heartfelt expressions, as he nodded.

"That she is, Watson, as are you...and you are lucky to have found one another. However, if you do not leave your cravat alone, it will look a sight, and I will be forced to restrain your hands for the rest of the journey."

The other man's hand froze where it was as it again was adjusting the silken fabric, dropping it quickly. "Yes...right. Good idea," he agreed, flushing just a little.

Closing his watch and returning it to his waistcoat's fob pocket, Holmes looked him over. "You look fine, my dear fellow," he assured him. "Positively dashing...you will quite sweep her off her feet. Not that you have not already done so. You've been her knight in shining armour for some time now," he noted with only the merest hint of jocularity in his tone.

Watson's eyes dropped along with his hands to his lap, a tiny, pleased smile on his lips. "Thank you, dear fellow," he replied almost shyly.

"I tell you though," Holmes commented, glancing out the window once more at the street as they passed, "I am grateful you changed your mind about the courtly wedding. With the switch to the registry office and small guest list, I am spared the dreaded best man's speech. I must remember to thank Mary for that."

Watson's chuckle bounced off the walls of the carriage. "Yes, well, I am most pleased she changed her mind as well. I honestly prefer a more intimate affair, and it makes more sense with both my family being either abroad or, like hers, deceased. Best to have just our nearest and dearest...though we are planning on having more over for the dinner party when we return. Still," he mused, "it was sweet of her to make the decision the way she did." His attention drifted a little into that distracted state that Holmes had had to endure with increasing frequency as the wedding had drawn close. "She merely looked up at me as we talked about the wedding venue and adding to the guest list with more of her fellow governesses she has befriended, and stopped…reached for my hand…and said 'Alternatively, John, we could discard all this and merely marry…after all, all I really want is to be your wife.'" He sighed softly in the remembrance.

As did Holmes.

"Yes, Watson…you _did_ tell me." The detective's sigh emerged with more than a trace of weariness on hearing the story for the fifth time. "A very grand gesture I'm sure…and far more sensible for the pocketbook..." Holmes observed. "Especially after the groom has just completed the not inexpensive purchase of a medical practice."

"That too," his friend agreed with a smile, coming back to himself.

Holmes watched him for a moment, thinking on the purchase of the practice and the changes to come, before drawing in a long breath, and allowing his eyes to drift once more back to their passing surrounds as they finally turned right out of Baker Street and onto the unusually heavy late morning traffic of Marylebone Road. Though unwilling to look at his friend as he spoke, his words were light and seemingly casual. "It shall be quiet around Baker Street without you."

The older man regarded his companion quietly. "Well, you will be able to get your experiments done without me underfoot, as well as practice your violin when you like...besides I shall be over so often with work you'll be keen to send me home," he replied softly, trying to keep his voice jovial, but the hint that he too would miss the other's constant presence seeped in all the same.

"Of that, I have no doubt whatsoever," Holmes enthused suddenly, turning his eyes back to him. "The solitude will be glorious." And though he smiled, the truth was more accurately revealed in the fleeting softly affectionate look on his face, before he shook his head ruefully. "However, now I will have no one to consume all of Mrs. Hudson's breakfasts and keep her from nagging at me to eat."

Watson bit his lip to contain his laughter at that. "Yes, well...perhaps that is for the best," he teased. "Though you know you are always welcome at Mary's and my table."

His friend managed to look only _slightly_ pained at that. "I am grateful for the offer, Watson, and may even avail myself of it, but to be honest your soon-to-be wife is almost a Mrs. Hudson in training." His brow creased in mild bewilderment. "Whenever I venture into her presence, she appears to feel some overwhelming need to repay me for what part I played in her case by ensuring I am more pampered then a European prince."

This time, Watson did laugh. "Mary is very keen on hospitality, and she will always feel she owes you a great deal with regards to what happened, so I'm afraid, old fellow, you will have to endure the outrageous pampering for some time to come. As for the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson, perhaps I shall have to look into finding someone to take my place...a stand in." He felt the slight smile form on his lips, as his eyes moved to gaze out the window. "Someone with a hearty appetite..."

His friend shook his head at that. "I was fortunate enough to stumble across an amiable roommate willing to put up with my…unusual…foibles once. It may be some time before I come across another chap willing to do so. Besides, my circumstances are not what they were when I first asked you if you were keen to share rooms."

"Mmmm," his friend agreed thoughtfully. "Perhaps then just a dinner companion..."

"I wonder how Mrs. Hudson would take to my inviting the Irregulars in for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?" Holmes mused aloud. "Their combined appetites approximate a respectably sized plague of locusts."

Watson was about to laugh again, when instead he caught sight of the grey granite building that was the Westminster Council House and the home of the Registrar's Office and sat up, his frame of mind instantly returning to his nuptials. "We're nearly there...how do I look? Did you remember the license?"

Holmes gazed at him levelly, his expression stoic when faced with the same question once again. "_This_, my dear fellow..." he indicated his friend's state with a sweep of his hand, "is precisely why I have always warned on the dangers and distractions of the female gender."

Watson made to reply, but was again distracted by the carriage slowing and coming to a stop in front of the large grey stoned building. "We're here..." he breathed, looking rather pale, and swallowing frequently.

"Courage, Watson!" Holmes hid a smile as he opened the door. "You've made it this far." Climbing out, he put on his hat, and, on spotting the bridal party stepping through the front entrance to await them, turned back to usher the bundle of nerves that was his closest friend out onto the street.

"Wait here," he said to the driver. "We shall be out, I'd imagine, around noon...once we emerge, you shall be taking the bride and groom straight to Paddington station."

"Right you are, sir," the cabbie agreed with a nod, grinning down at the agitated groom as he emerged from the brougham, and was so busy fiddling once more with his cravat, that he did not notice his bride-to-be and her small entourage. As he looked up on Holmes gently drawing his hand away from his shirt front, Watson finally caught sight of the three women standing in front of the building.

Though all three were equally notable in their own ways, his gaze found his bride immediately, his legs perversely riveted to the spot as she stood there, beautiful in her pale grey and blue dress, while talking quietly with her now former employer and friend, Mrs. Joanne Forrester.

Holmes moved to his partner's side and followed his gaze to the front steps of the building and the object of his affection. Clearing his throat to stop the chuckle that was bubbling up, he patted the older man on the shoulder, before guiding the doctor's grey top hat to his head. "Come along, Watson, let's be having you," he said, taking some pleasure in deliberately sounding like a police officer about to lead away a condemned prisoner, as he nudged him forward along the pavement.

Taking a hesitant step forward under Holmes's gentle shove, Watson gradually found the life in his leaden legs, so that every step he took grew a little easier as he moved towards the blue eyed, blonde haired figure of his waiting fiancée, and the smile that tugged at his lips threatened to split his face if he did not keep it under strict control.

By the time he reached the steps, he was moving at such a brisk pace that he was forced to skid to a halt right in front of her. "Good morning, Mary," he said softly, removing his top hat again, his eyes so completely focused only on her, that the two women on either side barely registered in his perception.

Her gentle eyes met his, and her smile was breathtaking to see. "Good morning, John," she replied, her tone full of her own joy and love.

Helen, who had been watching Watson's approach, moved a couple of steps away along with Mrs. Forrester so as to give the couple some privacy, before turning to greet the other male member of the wedding party, only to find her breath catch completely in her throat. She had seen the doctor's friend dressed in evening wear on a couple of occasions now, and had found him attractive in that, but in his morning suit, complete with a splash of colour at his throat, she was quite at a loss for words, and was quite sure at that moment that he was the most striking man she had ever seen.

It was only when he turned to them, upon hearing Joanne greet him, that she became aware she was staring, and pulled her eyes away hurriedly, feeling more than a little off balance and disconcerted at her reaction.

"Good morning, Mrs. Forrester," Holmes returned the greeting, tipping his hat. "A pleasure to see you again. I trust you and your family are well?"

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes. What a joyous day this is!" she enthused, her smile wide and delighted. "Though I am lamenting that I shall no longer have the best governess in all of England."

"Nor I the most affable of roommates, Mrs. Forrester," he commiserated with a slight smile, before turning his attention to the lady in black beside her. "Good morning, Miss Thurlow," he greeted her, tipping his hat again. "It's good to see you, as always."

Struggling to find her inner decorum, she smiled back at the detective, and inclined her head. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes. It is good to see you as well, especially on such a happy day."

The tall man nodded, glancing at the engrossed Watson and Mary as he did so. "And if ever a couple epitomised the ideal of the happy wedding, I believe we have them," he noted with humorous acerbity.

"Indeed, indeed, Mr. Holmes! A fine match and none more suited than they," Mrs. Forrester agreed with a laugh. "Except for Cecil and I, of course."

Helen glanced over to her friends, who were speaking softly, the love they shared shining in their eyes, and beyond happiness and a little envy, she felt another twinge of anxiety and reserve...one of many she had had since agreeing to come to the wedding, for she was still dressed in deep mourning, and those in deep mourning simply did not attend such events as these, outside of close family, for propriety and fear of bad luck. And she did not want even the slightest chance of any ill luck coming to her new dear friend and her advisor. In fact, she had only relented upon some severe and rather persistent coaxing from the bride, and her lips pulled into a wry smile at the memory. Indeed, Mary had some rather surprisingly adept and ingenious bribing skills.

Watson tucked his hat under his arm as he gazed down at his fiancée. "Well, Miss Morstan," he murmured, swallowing a little nervously, but finding the anxiety beginning to slide away under her gaze, "shall we step inside?"

"I believe that is why we are here, John," she replied, her tone light but warm, as she took his arm. "Did you remember the license?"

Watson blinked, before frowning, and looking over at his best man, who closed his eyes in mild exasperation and tapped his breast pocket in reply. "Umm...yes..." Watson said quickly, as he sheepishly remembered the several other times he had asked the question. "Yes, we did." Drawing his eyes away from Holmes, he finally noticed the other members of the party. "Oh...Mrs. Forrester, Miss Thurlow," he greeted them with a smile. "Good morning. It's wonderful to see you both here."

"We would not miss this for the world!" gushed the elder woman, as she swept over to greet the groom. "Would we, Miss Thurlow?"

"No," Helen agreed, trying bury her anxieties and her feeling of being particularly out of place. "No, we would not."

"Still..." Watson returned, gazing at both of them, "we appreciate it greatly." He let his eyes rest on Helen, knowing from Mary that she had agonised over her attending. "It means much to both of us," he insisted, to which she gave him a small, shy smile and nod in reply.

Taking the moment to finally approach the bride, Holmes respectfully removed his hat before quietly saying, "My compliments, Miss Morstan. I wish you every happiness today."

She inclined her head in return, her blue eyes taking him in. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. That means a great deal indeed, for I know I am depriving you of a most congenial roommate."

"It is some small consolation, Miss Morstan," he replied, "to know he is going to so understanding and caring a lady."

The doctor beamed broadly at his friend's complimenting of his fiancée, and patted his arm in thanks, as the former governess smiled softly at him as well. "You will be always most welcome in our home, Mr. Holmes."

Stepping to one side with a nod of gratitude, Holmes allowed Watson to lead his fiancée forward into the Registrar's Office, before taking and holding the door open for the other two ladies in the party.

Inside, the grey granite building was a world of dark mahogany wood and smoked glass, as office doors, booths, and benches decorated the place with one large stone staircase dominating the area. Moving to the reception, Holmes enquired after the Watson/Morstan wedding, and on producing the wedding licence was directed upstairs and to the right to Room Number Twelve.

The wedding party made its way upstairs to the appointed room, outside of which there were yet more wooden benches where they were to wait until called. After seating themselves, they waited quietly, the tension oddly building again in this officious edifice...until finally, a thin, pinch faced man in a suit and high collar walked towards them from down the corridor, a file clutched in his hands.

"The Watson/Morstan wedding?" he asked.

"Indeed, sir." Watson stood with a smile, which was not returned.

"Are you John Watson?" the skinny man asked him, peering over his horn-rimmed glasses.

"I am," the doctor agreed with a nod.

"And which one is the bride, Mary Morstan?" he asked, glancing back down at the file.

"I am," the blond woman replied, moving to her fiancé's side.

"Do we have two witnesses?" he asked after briefly glancing at her.

"Yes, sir," Watson responded dutifully with another incline of his head.

"And the licence?" the man sniffed.

"_That_ most precious commodity we most certainly have," Holmes assured him quite vociferously, handing it to him to peruse.

"Very well..." The thin man closed his file, and opened the double doors to Room Twelve, leading them into a wide, brightly lit room that stood in stark contrast to the gloomy world outside the door.

The March sun shone in through the large windows, lighting the well decorated room, complete with a large, ornate, mahogany desk that was flanked by two Union Jacks and a richly carpeted floor. In front of the desk laid out in two rows leaving an aisle, were the seats. Walking forward and dropping the file on the desk, the little man turned his eyes back to them. "Take a seat - the best man to the right, maid or matron of honour to the left...the Registrar will be here directly," he informed them, before walking briskly out.

"Thank providence for that," Holmes murmured. "For a moment, I thought you were to be married by a weasel."

Helen held a hand to her lips to contain a laugh at that, though Mrs. Forrester chuckled openly. "Indeed, Mr. Holmes...what a frightful fellow," the older woman exclaimed.

"I am unsure," said Holmes, "if council officials become that way due to their jobs...or are hired on the condition that they appear and act that way." He shook his head, before indicating to the ladies to sit on one side of the aisle, while Watson and he took the other.

Five minutes later, as they talked in the far more hospitable surroundings of the spacious room they had been assigned, an older man of about fifty-five with a broad chest, equally broad smile, and shock of thick grey hair wandered in and greeted them, introducing himself as the Registrar. Double checking the details in the file, he asked them all to assemble before him.

Picking up his book, he gazed at the bride and groom standing nervously along side each other once more. "We are gathered here today in the Registrar's Office of Westminster City Council House, sanctioned by both the City of London and Her Majesty's Imperial Government to solemnise marriages in the State's eyes."

"In this case, the marriage to be solemnised is that of Dr. John Hamish Watson to Miss Mary Elizabeth Morstan," the Registrar said, before looking around with a smile. "Now, under law I must ask...is there anyone present who knows of any lawful reason why this marriage may not take place?"

The room went very quiet, as all just gazed back at the man expectantly, and with a nod, the Registrar finally turned his attention to the bride and groom. "I must now ask you both in turn to make the following declaration...Miss Morstan repeat after me. 'I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Mary Morstan, may not be joined in matrimony to John Watson.'"

Turning to face her betrothed, she repeated the words, her gaze bright and happy beyond measure, and was soon followed by her fiancé, who made the same declaration, his moustache twitching with the smile that was threatening to spread across his face once again.

The formalities observed, the Registrar gave Mary her next, far sweeter declaration, which she dutifully and obediently repeated, impulsively taking her groom's hand in hers as she spoke the words. "I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, do take thee John Hamish Watson...to be my lawful wedded husband."

With a glad exhalation of breath, Watson in turn took the declaration, his eyes soft and warm, and his hand squeezing hers gently as the words that legalised their marriage passed his lips.

"The ring?" the Registrar enquired.

Reaching into his fob pocket, Holmes pulled out the plain gold band, and handed it to the doctor, who raised his bride's hand slowly, his eyes on hers till he moved to place the sign of their love and commitment upon her.

With a wide smile, and sudden unstoppable tears of joy in her eyes, Mary brushed bashfully at her cheek when one slipped free as he slid the ring on her finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving her face, and his fingers entwining with hers as soon as the ring was in place.

Content, the Registrar nodded, and closed his book, turning his attention to the others in the room once more. "Ladies and gentleman, in the eyes of the Crown and Her Majesty's Government, I declare this couple legally wed...I give you Dr. and Mrs. Watson."

A burst of applause came from their small guest list, as the newly wed couple turned to take the acclamation and be congratulated thoroughly by each one present, before the Registrar invited them and the two witnesses to sign the registrar.

Holmes stepped forward after the bride and groom, and signed his name to the register, before looking up and handing the pen to Helen to follow suit. "Here you are, Miss Thurlow," he said, glancing at the newlyweds. "Be the one to forever seal their fate."

Her cheeks flushed a little, as she glanced over to Joanne Forrester, her expression wary on whether it should be she that should be so bold. However, a quick shake of the head and smile from the other woman put that to rest, and Helen took the pen, and signed her name under the detective's on the witness line. Turning to her friends, she smiled warmly. "I believe I much more enjoy signing my name on marriage licenses than on shipping contracts. It has a much better feel," she said with no small amount of jocularity.

Watson beamed broadly at everyone in sight, the smile that had been threatening to overwhelm his face finally taking hold.

"Really, Watson…" Holmes shook his head, jokingly despairing of his friend. "Contain yourself, or your good lady wife will know for certain that she has you firmly in her pocket."

The older man gazed down at his bride as she held his arm. "Alas, my dear fellow, she has known that for a good deal of time already."

Mary's quiet smile spoke volumes as she looked up into her new husband's eyes. "As I am in yours," she replied warmly.

Holmes regarded the besotted pair, and knew then and there that he would get little coherent thought from his colleague upon his return from his honeymoon for possibly quite some months. Picking up his hat from his chair, he took on the role of best man again. "Come along, Dr. and Mrs. Watson...I believe there is a train you must catch. Your luggage already awaits you at the station."

"No...no…wait!" Mrs. Forrester held up her hand, her eyes dancing with merriment. "Seeing as we are not to have a celebration until your return," she said to the newlyweds, "there is one tradition that has not taken place that must before you depart. The bride simply must be kissed. It would be both unlucky and a travesty to send a bride upon her honeymoon un-embraced…it simply won't do." She clasped her hands adamantly, her eyes turning to the groom.

"Oh no…" Mary's cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink at the idea of a public kiss. "Really," she replied with a nervous shake of her head.

Watson's gaze, however, went from his bride to her employer and back again, any shy reluctance dissipating the moment his eyes caught his wife's again. "Very well," he agreed with a nod, puffing out his chest, and placing his hat upon a seat, before turning back to her.

"John…" Mary began to demure, only to be silenced by the descent of her new husband's lips to hers, while his hands rested on her upper arms. For a fraction of a moment, she remained utterly still, her eyes fluttering shut, before her hands slipped to his waist, as she eased into the gentle caress with a soft sigh.

Pulling back, a definite glint in his eye, Watson smiled at her - an unambiguous hint of a man victoriously claiming what was now his about him, his smile only widening at her deep blush, before looking over at Mrs. Forrester, and receiving a delighted if somewhat misty eyed smile and a small round of applause from her. "Splendid, Doctor, just lovely," she approved whole heartedly, before her mischievous eye turned to the dispassionately patient face of his colleague, who on catching it, immediately gave a short laugh and turned leery.

"No, Mrs. Forrester," he replied with a shake of his head. "I don't think so."

"Oh come, come, Mr. Holmes!" she insisted. "It is a tradition…the best man must kiss the bride. That's where the luck comes in!"

"Madam…such ideas are the stuff of fantasy, fairytale, and…" He trailed off, as he caught the small array of amused and expectant faces around him, his shoulders slumping slightly on realising that it was unlikely that he would escape the room without performing the action. "Very well," he breathed, placing his hat on the seat beside Watson's, and taking a step towards Mary, whose smile this time was not the least bashful, the nervous discomfort in her husband's best friend's face far too amusing for that.

"My respects," Holmes murmured, before leaning in and pressing his lips briefly to her cheek.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!" Mary smiled at him cheerfully, as he pulled back. Watching from the side, Helen stifled a chuckle which died a little as she suddenly felt a pang of envy for her friend's situation once more…though this time, it had little to do with her marriage.

Clearing his throat noisily, Holmes scooped up both his hat and Watson's, which he handed to him, before tucking his own under his arm. "Shall we go?" he stated more than asked this time.

"Yes, yes! You must both be off!" agreed Mrs. Forrester, her voice jovial, as she ushered the pair to the door. "You must not start your life together with a missed train! That will never do! No sir, never do!"

Moving back downstairs through the dark building, they emerged once more into the sunlight and walked down the steps towards the carriage that had carried the groom and best man there, and which would now escort the newlyweds away. On reaching the carriage, Mrs. Forrester produced a bag of rice which she offered to Helen, and together, they showered the doctor and his new wife as Holmes opened the door, allowing the laughing and waving pair to bustle into the carriage.

Closing the door behind them, Holmes regarded in at his friend. "My best wishes, Watson," he said quietly. "And to you too, Miss...Mrs. Watson," he corrected himself, giving her a smile as he extended his hand.

Returning his gesture, she took his hand and squeezed it softly. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she replied.

Turning it over, he kissed the back of her gloved hand through the window, his expression a great deal less self conscious then before, and then offered his hand to his friend. "Enjoy yourself, Watson," he instructed the older man, flashing him a quick smile. "Try not to lose yourselves in the countryside...I'd rather not have to find a new Boswell."

Watson took his hand and shook it warmly. "Fear not, Holmes...my overly romanticised stylings shall continue to chronicle your achievements a while yet," he promised, before his eyes grew a little sober at the awareness of the things that could happen to Holmes virtually overnight. "Take good care of yourself in the meantime."

With an incline of his head, his friend stepped away from the carriage. "Don't I always?" he replied, and before Watson could retort beyond a derisive snort, he ordered the cabbie on his way.

As the carriage rumbled away, Mrs. Forrester turned and beckoned to her driver, who was waiting down the street. "I too must be on my way," she said, turning to the detective and young woman. "It seems I must begin my search for a new governess!" And with a chuckle, she held out her hand to Holmes. "It was good to see you again, sir...and in much happier circumstances!"

Taking her hand, Holmes bowed over it. "Indeed, Mrs. Forrester...and I wish you luck in your search."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, thank you," she replied, before turning to Helen. "And good to meet you as well, young lady! I am so glad Mary found a friend such as you!" she enthused, giving the startled woman a hearty embrace.

"Thank you, Mrs. Forrester," she returned, though a little flustered by the woman's boisterous ways. "It was good to finally make your acquaintance."

The older woman grinned broadly, before turning and bustling into her carriage, though just before the she signalled the driver to pull away, she gazed at the duo on the pavement for a moment from her open window. "By Jove, you both make a handsome pair! Hmmpf! Yes, indeed, most handsome!" she exclaimed, and, with another wide smile, called to her driver and sped away.

Helen stared after the carriage with a rather embarrassed and shocked expression on her face. Not entirely sure if she should laugh, or shrink into her dress at the blunt compliment, she turned her face away from her remaining companion.

Holmes regarded her for a moment, before turning back to watch the retreating carriage, shaking his head at Mrs. Forrester's determinedly romantic ways. Feigning an air of mild perplexity, he mused, "Mrs. Hudson said something similar this morning about how I looked in this suit..." He glanced over at the young woman in her black dress. "And your dress is quite fashionable. I suppose, we do make the rather handsome looking pair...it would be a poor showing if we didn't look our best for a wedding." His response showed no inclination towards taking any other meaning out of the remark than that of their mutual presentability, and putting his hat back on his head, he turned to address her more directly. "Well, Miss Thurlow, it seems we have been left stranded together."

Breathing an inward sigh of relief at his interpretation of the comment, she turned back to him and nodded. "Yes, though I do have a ticket for the one thirty train back to St. Albans." She frowned slightly. "I suppose, I should head towards the station, though I must say I do have something of an appetite. I had to leave the house early this morning to attend to some business before the wedding."

Checking his watch, which read five past twelve, he nodded. "There is time…and if you would not think it unseemly, I would be glad to escort you to the station where we could have a spot of lunch. There are one or two hostelries nearby that serve a reasonable standard of food."

Giving him a friendly smile, she inclined her head in assent. "No, I would not think it too unseemly, and would be most grateful for the company, Mr. Holmes. Train stations are awfully boring places to wait...never mind the décor." Her nose wrinkled at the thought. "Dreadful colours."

"Very true," he agreed wholeheartedly. "So much effort in design only to be let down by horrendous colour sense." Crossing to the outside of the path to walk alongside her as they moved of, he continued, "Now the French know how to provide a quality decor and entertaining place of departure...have you heard of the Gare du Nord?"

She shook her head, though her eyes were bright with curiosity. "The North Station?" she translated.

"Yes, it is in Paris...and is beautifully designed and fashionably appointed, with several marvellous cafes and restaurants done in a variety of styles, as well as providing live music and dancing for the passengers while they wait. It is an elegant way to travel. Watson and I were there while waiting to catch the Orient Express. The French have their drawbacks, as do all nations, but style they never lack."

"Sounds delightful," she returned, flashing him an envious smile. "I do hope to travel in a few years, when things in the company have settled down a bit. France is first on my list, then I think Switzerland."

"Italy..." he interjected without hesitation. "Rome, Florence, Venice...and, of course, Naples."

She sighed and nodded in agreement. "I would love to see Italy...and Egypt...the ruins alone fascinate me, never mind the art and culture."

Holmes glanced around him, as he voiced his thoughts. "I would encourage you to travel extensively, Miss Thurlow, as your friend Lady Margaret has done...perhaps you and she might take a European tour together? She would seem an ideal companion."

She gave him a slightly mournful look. "I would, Mr. Holmes, however, Maggie just informed me two weeks ago that she is with child, so I fear there will be little travelling for her in the near future. And with the boys still being so young, I fear any extended travelling of my own will have to wait until they are at school."

"I see..." he replied with a nod. "Well, there is plenty of time, and I'm sure other friends...although, of course, it may well be that one day you will travel with your husband."

She arched an eyebrow up at him at that. "Possibly," she agreed, her mind again noting how dashing he looked in his attire, for it seemed he was made for that suit, and how his face seemed to light up when he discussed a subject he was interested in. Suddenly becoming aware that she was almost staring at him again, she turned her eyes away hurriedly, and focused on their walk. "Do you get the opportunity to travel often?" she enquired, trying to find her footing once more, and chastising herself for her thoughts.

"Quite often." he replied. "I have done a number of services for governments and individuals around Europe and on occasion farther a field. Watson has accompanied me on many of them."

Her eyes widened, as she shook her head. "Now I really am envious, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps I should become a detective," she mused, shooting him a teasing glance. "Though my deductive skills leave much to be desired."

"On the basis of our little adventure in Exmoor, I find them no worse then Watson's," he responded, turning his eyes to her for a moment. "Which is to say, though I would ask you not to inform him I said it, a great deal better then most people."

Surprised, she gazed back up at him, clearly pleased by the compliment. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she replied with a genuine smile. "And not to worry, I shall keep your confidence on the matter. My lips are sealed."

"I would appreciate it, Miss Thurlow. There is little worse to live with than a smug Watson..." He paused for a moment, as though just remembering that he no longer shared rooms with the doctor. "Though, I suppose that is now Mrs. Watson's concern."

She laughed a little at that. "Yes, but you still have to work with him, as she must live with him, and I would hate to give either of you cause for worry."

"Then on behalf of us both...I thank you," he returned with an incline of his head, before looking over at her. "The end of your period of deep mourning for your father will occur in two months..." he voiced quietly. "Brothers or not...you should think of getting away for some travel. You could always hire a tutor, and take the family to Switzerland for a time...the air would do you all good."

She smiled softly up at him, rather touched that he had kept track, and pleased that he was concerned for her well being, though unsettled by the flip flop of her stomach that had accompanied it. "I shall keep it in mind, Mr. Holmes, but with Maggie's baby due in late August, I would want to remain close to home. She is dreading going into confinement, and I have promised to visit her often to keep her from as she puts it 'utter boredom.'" She shook her head a little. "So, I'm afraid the English country air will have to do this year."

"There are worse places," he said with a conciliatory smile. "Still, you are a good friend," he noted of her actions, before again turning his eyes to take in the busy activity of the London streets. "Both Watson and his new bride would no doubt agree."

She blushed a little at the compliment, feeling rather honoured at the many he was bestowing on her. "Well, I do try to be," she murmured. "To all my friends."

"It is a time consuming thing," he observed, "and one that shapes your life. I suppose that is the one reason why, along with being a difficult fellow, I have few friends. I cannot afford them, anymore than they can me."

"Well, you have been a fine one to me," she replied, before her cheeks turned bright pink at her slip of the tongue. "I...I apologise...that was rather presumptuous of me..." Her gaze focused swiftly at her feet and the pavement, as she kicked herself inwardly once again for her over active mouth.

He turned his eyes back to her, scrutinising her silently for a moment. "There is no presumption, Miss Thurlow. It would be hard to rationally deny that our interactions have long since passed that of a professional capacity...and indeed that of mere acquaintances. It seems, therefore, quite obvious that all we have left is friendship...so therefore...even though I hardly ever considered it to be a title I would bestow upon a woman...we must conclude that we are friends," he pronounced, as he walked casually onwards. "And while I rather doubt I have been a fine one...I thank you for the thought."

Having fully expected to be chastised for her slip of the tongue, she found his admission of their friendship even more off balancing. Taking a moment to collect herself, and flashing him a grateful smile, she hedged, "I am most honoured that you think me so, for I do enjoy our conversations."

Holmes pointed across the street to the small cafe beside it. "Well then..." he replied, glancing at the clock on the station wall, "perhaps we can continue our discussions over a light lunch?"

"I would be pleased to, Mr. Holmes," she agreed, before following him across to the cafe.

* * *

Lunch was light and swift with Helen's train due to leave in less then forty-five minutes, though the topics of discussion covered in that time were many and varied...not least of which were the nuptials that morning and the suitability of Mary for Watson and vice versa. 

There was, however, no escaping the fact that Holmes for all his good natured banter on the subject was clearly going to miss the presence of his friend around Baker Street, and was of the firm opinion that their future time together would be severely reduced. There appeared to be no resentment in the topic, merely a resignation that Helen could not help but feel rather sad to hear, and that despite all outward appearances, Sherlock Holmes was not the wholly self contained, composed, cold fish he liked to portray himself as.

He would miss his friend...and he would be lonely.

After lunch as he walked her to the train, there was no doubt in her mind that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was not only the foremost consulting detective the world had ever known, a brilliant intellect and rationalist, and expert on several topics ranging from chemistry to stitching...but a very human being indeed.

And as the train left the station, she was left with an image in her mind of an iceberg - glacial and pristine from what you could see, but with the true depths buried beneath still waters. Her journey home was half way done, before she realised with a blush that she had spent it wondering about those hidden depths and whether she might ever get a glimpse of them.

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Thank you all again for continuing on with us...and to all that have read and/or reviewed, merci as well! We were going to wait till the weekend to put this chapter up, but due to the long Memorial Day weekend over here in the USA, and that I will be gone from Friday till Monday...we conferred and decided to give everyone something to read a bit early. Though chapter nine will not be up till Friday next week. :D_**

**_Not many comments to answer this time...but to keep this section simple...the Thurlow/Holmes dynamic will continue...though what turn is the real question...and we're not answering...heh. Though Elsie Cubit made us some gorgeous icons and collage in livejournal. Feel free to check us out there...I go by aerynstales and my cowriter...lfire. Right...well, enjoy this chapter, and we shall see you all in a week! Tea and biccies to all! Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**


	9. Musical Chairs

_Chapter Nine: Musical Chairs_

_30th April, 1889_

"Helen?" Mrs. Mary Watson addressed her friend, frowning slightly at her small armful of parcels while the two women walked up a Marylebone Road currently bathed in April sunshine, heading towards her husband's now secondary place of occupation. "Do you still have that small red and white wrapped package I picked up at Madame Fleurette's?"

Glancing down at her own stack of boxes and packages balanced precariously in her arms, Helen craned her head to see. "I believe so..." Raising her arms and burden slightly, she wondered if she would ever get out of the poverty instilled habit of not hiring a cab when walking around the streets of London, and managed to spy the prettily dressed box between two others. "Yes...I have it here."

"Oh good," her friend breathed, exhaling a soft sigh of relief. "It wouldn't do at all to have left them lying around in the cafe."

Helen's eyebrow arched, her curiosity having been piqued ever since Mary had diverted quickly into the French woman's rather exclusive little boutique off Oxford Street, leaving her standing outside. "No, I suppose not. Though of course," she reminded her with a mischievous smile, "I remain at a perfect loss as to what 'they' are."

Mary's expression immediately became somewhat cautious, and she hesitated for a few seconds, before glancing around to check the proximity of others around them as they walked. She was sotto voce when she turned back and leaned towards her friend. "I should not of course be speaking of such things...but well...in all honesty, Helen, they're just a little treat from Paris...they're…um…rather decorative...garters," she explained quickly, hiding the small smile and flush of her cheeks with a dip of her head.

Both of her friend's eyebrows rose almost to the hairline."_Really?_"she breathed, before catching the immodestly intrigued tone of her own voice. "I mean...oh...well..." Her cheeks turned crimson at the connotations and her reaction, causing her to cough a little in embarrassment. "I am sure your husband will be pleased...I mean...that is to say...oh…oh dear..." she stumbled, digging herself in deeper with every syllable.

Mary bit her lip at her friend's nervous words, before leaning towards her once more. "Yes..." she whispered. "I dare say John will." A rather nervous, if girlishly impish, laugh emanated from the pretty blonde, as her auburn headed friend's eyes widened, causing Mary to giggle again. "Oh dear, that was rather wicked of me to say, wasn't it?"

Hiding her smile as best she could, considering her hands were occupied, Helen nodded vigorously. "I dare say so, Mary, however, I shall not tell anyone if you do not." Her voice was the very essence of conspiratorial bonhomie, before she moved the conversation along naturally. "So, married life is treating you both well then?"

"Very." Mary's face took on a happy, distant appearance in conjunction with her most decisive of answers. "These past few weeks have been...well..." With a shake of her head, she gave up, unable to find the words to express them. "Helen…John is just the dearest, sweetest, gentlestman….patient, attentive, romantic, and ardent. I am the most fortunate of women in my choice of husband…and in his of me." Her smile on thinking of her husband was soft and almost wondrous, and after a moment, she attempted to break herself from her reverie with a quiet clearing of her throat, glancing somewhat embarrassedly at her friend. "That is not to say he does not have his faults," she continued, trying to sound like a good, prim, Victorian wife intent on 'gently' remodelling her husband into the perfect Victorian man. "But I must confess they are quite minor." She lapsed into a smile again, the manner of the newly wedded unable to be repressed for long. "John is, unusually for a man, a remarkably good and earnest listener...something I can only attribute to his literary abilities and time with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Her friend sighed happily next to her. "I am so very pleased for you both, Mary. Truly, I am. You both deserve to find happiness...and to see two people so clearly made for each other...it gives hope to the rest of us."

"Hope is not something _you_ need to cleave to, dearest Helen," Mary replied, smiling at her. "You will find someone. Of that, I am sure of."

Her friend's lips pulled into a wry smile. "Possibly, however, I do not think that will occur anytime soon."

"Oh?" Mary watched her closely. "And what makes you sure of that? One never knows where one will find one's match. You may have already met him…or he could walk around the corner at any given time only to sweep you off your feet...look at John and I and how we met? Hardly the usual method of introduction."

"Ah, but your meeting was a rare event indeed. Yours is a tale of adventure and romance with your champion knight and his medical bag. That is unlikely to occur for me." Helen shook her head ruefully. "Besides, I am hardly in a position to actively entertain anyone. My life is far too active as of late…and never mind that most men I meet these days seem only to show true interest in what money I will bring to the match," she pointed out, wrinkling her nose. "And others are simply rather...dull."

Mary nodded sympathetically, as they walked on. "As you say, and indeed, from your descriptions of one or two, I'm somewhat surprised you did not fall asleep mid conversation with them," she agreed. However, a moment later, though she faced straight ahead, her blue eyes gradually moved surreptitiously towards her friend, her voice light and airy. "Still at least, for the moment, for stimulating conversation there is always Sherlock."

Helen nodded with seeming absence at the comment. "Yes, well...he most certainly keeps one on their toes…and there is always something new to discuss." She cast Mary a slight smile. "I suppose for now, he will have to do," she said evenly, though inwardly her mind whirred rapidly at Mary's remark, wondering if her friend had somehow picked up on something from her. Whether there had been some careless outward betrayal of the fact that her thoughts of late had been returning more and more to Dr. Watson's colleague, and dwelled there in a way she was increasingly uncomfortable with.

"He most certainly does keep one alert," her friend concurred with a smile. "I must confess, I am quite in admiration when John tells me how you converse with him, and he with you. He is a fine man, a genius in many ways, but somewhat intellectuallyintimidating. I find your ability with him, highly commendable."

Helen felt her cheeks flush at the compliment. "Well...I don't know about that...it is not as though I do or say anything special. Most of the time, I fear I shallplace my foot squarely back in my mouth again."

"And, knowing my husband's closest friend, I have no doubt that he will be the first to inform you of your foot's precise whereabouts, what style of shoe you were wearing, and what you had for breakfast that morning because of it," Mary replied with a chuckle, before giving her a friend an affection glance. "But, for the most part, he does truly seem to appreciate your company...both John and I are firmly of that opinion."

The young woman quickly glanced away, fearing her pleasure at that statement would show in her eyes. "That is certainly gratifying to hear...he is a good friend to me and my family."

Her friend watched every reaction keenly without ever giving any indication that she was doing so, and as the two women turned onto Baker Street, she moved her eyes back to their destination. Her husband's recounting of the events at Pendragon House in Somerset, and the ease of Holmes and Helen's subsequent conversations in its aftermath had only convinced her of what had occurred to her about Helen back at the Foundation Christmas party. Here was a woman who had, at the very least, the potential to divert the great and coolly aloof intellect of Mr. Sherlock Holmes from the sole pursuit of his work...and encourage him to look further inwards to more personal pursuits. She was sure of it.

Mary had become, in the aftermath of her own case with Holmes, as intrigued with the detective and his manner as she was enamoured of his friend and colleague. She and John had spent more than a few hours of their engagement on the topic of Sherlock Holmes, and she knew as much as John had been able to tell her, including the unfortunate tendencies towards the use of drugs which her husband fretted over greatly.

Over time, she had gradually formulated the hypothesis, and voiced it long since to him, that Sherlock Holmes had suffered some unhappiness in his never spoken of childhood…something undoubtedly to do with women or_a_woman in particular.

She had deduced it must be his childhood, for the younger man spoke so infrequently of his family, that close ties and a tight emotional bond seemed farfetched in the extreme. And since her husband was completely adamant that his friend had never been in love, his attitude towards women and from there to the subject of any involvement with one could not possibly stem from a broken heart, as so many men who professed a deep mistrust of women would often claim.Her experience as a governess made it easy for her to look back and envision what type of upbringing a man or woman may have had as a child, and conclude how that rearing influenced their personalities and natures to make them what they were currently**_…_**and in the great detective, she sensed a vulnerability with regard to his own emotions and the display of them that underlay his continued protestation of their necessary repression for logic's sake, a vulnerability that spoke of a fear brought on by some deep hurt.

She knew, of course, that she could be most profoundly wrong, but her instincts had seldom failed her these past years and she relied on them almost as much as Holmes did upon his facts, data, and logic. And those instincts had been telling her for quite some time now, that Helen Thurlow was the rarest of creatures to a man like Sherlock Holmes…a woman he could trust. And with trust, everything was possible…even the seemingly impossible.

Mary was not a meddlesome woman by nature, quite the contrary in fact, but though undoubtedly influenced by her own blissful state, she saw in front of her a very strong chance for happiness for two people that she cared about, and one that could easily slip by, if not taken advantage of quickly.

"I must admit to being happy for your friendship with him, for personal reasons," Mary added with completenonchalance. "With your presence and its aftermath...John's subsequent absence is felt a little less by Sherlock," she said thoughtfully, before smiling. "Which I must admit in turn, affords us a little extra time together. I know that John will not always be able to resist his friend's call for aid, nor should he, considering the importance of their work together…but I think he would be inclined to spend even more time at Baker Street, quite apart from cases, if he felt Sherlock was in want of personal interaction. Your visits and discussions over tea after your meetings with John have provided an extra social stimulus, which for so solitary a man can only be a good thing."

Raising her head, Helen gazed at her friend. "Well, then I am certainly glad I could help," she replied with a smile. "As newlyweds, you should have as much time together as possible. And it would not do to let your husband's partner be lonely...or heavens forefend…bored!" She shook her head at the memory. "The last instance of that was nerve wracking enough. The onset of ennui in Mr. Sherlock Holmes can be a danger to both life and limb!"

"The last instance? Ah..." Mary nodded in remembrance. "The gunpowder incident. Yes. Another reason why I couldn't even begin to react to him the way you do. I would've fled for my life!" She exaggerated for humour.

Chuckling, her friend shook her head. "No, Mary, I am sure you would have handled it perfectly well."

"Perhaps," she replied with a wry smile, as they arrived at their destination. "Though, I doubt I would've handled it quite the way you did. Imagine aiding him in the making of explosives! Heavens, what an anarchist you would make, Helen Thurlow!" she exclaimed with a laugh, and after a sheepish glance from her friend was joined by her so that their laughter filled the air before the entrance to 221b. With a jovial sigh as their mirth faded, Mary nudged Helen softly.**_ "_**Still…for all that, I can only hope we find him in good spirits today." She glanced up at the windows above them. "I would much rather tea awaits us than high explosives."

Following her gaze, Helen again shook her head in amusement, as she manipulated the bundle in her arms to ring the buzzer and announce their arrival.

On Mrs. Hudson's greeting and admittance of them, and their divesting themselves of their parcels, hats, and coats, both women made their way upstairs to find the two men in question not in the midst of some exotic experiment but awash in a sea of paper.

As the door opened, Watson looked up from the sheaf of papers he was sorting through with a decidedly bored look on his face. "Mary!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up as if someone had just shown him a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. "Miss Thurlow! I...that is..._we_…weren't expecting you for another hour or so." Rising up, he walked over to the ladies, taking his wife's hand and kissing her cheek, his eyes flashing with happiness at the sight of her as he pulled back.

"We finished our lunch and shopping a bit early," Mary replied, smiling with barely restrained devotion at her husband, while Helen ducked her head to hide her amused smile at the pair, as she moved more fully into the room.

"Not a moment too soon for your husband, I'll warrant." Holmes's mildly acerbic tone cut across the reunion. "He's only just now sat down to aid me with my filing...you ladies arriving gives him a whole _new_ world of avoidance to explore!"

By the door, his hand still with his wife's, the doctor looked mildly abashed.

"Do you require some aid, Mr. Holmes?" Helen asked politely, stifling a surge of eagerness to remain in his company, as she glanced over at the couple.

The detective glanced up at her. "I thought I had some, Miss Thurlow," he replied, flashing a mildly accusatory look towards at his colleague. "But my junior clerk's attention today is as wayward as that of a runaway horse and four. In short..." Holmes finished as she approached, "yes, Miss Thurlow some assistance would be welcome. However, you have your appointment with Watson, do you not?"

Helen turned back over to her advisor and his wife, who was also flushing at the detective's words. "That rather depends on the good doctor and his wife," she teased with a twinkle in her eyes, while in response Mary surprisingly glanced up at her husband with such a knowing look that it made the other woman frown for a moment.

Leading his wife to the couch and not releasing her hand until she had seated herself, Watson turned to his colleague. "Actually, Holmes, as Miss Thurlow has offered you her assistance...if you both wouldn't mind dreadfully, I do have some things to attend to at the practice. Teething problems that are inevitable in the early months of any new business...and Mary said she might help me." He lowered himself onto the couch next to his wife. "I'm afraid there's plenty of filing and re-filing to be done there too. I've been working at it myself for the past few evenings...which is why I'm so deucedly unenthused about helping you with yours, old man...I do apologise."

His colleague put down his own filing, which he had scarcely ceased working on since the ladies arrival. "You should have said, Watson. Of course, you must go." His reconciled tone showed no surprise whatsoever at this particular turn of events, and though not doubting for a moment the veracity of his friend's words regarding his own work at the surgery, knew all the same that his statement was not the entire truth.

Similarly, Helen noted that Mary's enthusiasm was perhaps slightly more than one attributable to a woman solely about to aid her husband in filing. However, she merely smiled, as her friend caught her eyes and nodded, unable to begrudge them any happiness at all. "Of course, Doctor. Shall we reschedule for next week?"

He nodded eagerly before somewhat contritelypausing to enquire, "Unless, there is something of great import you would like to discuss? Then, of course, I am at your service."

She shook her head, and moved over to the detective. "No, all is rather calm as of late, though next week I should like to discuss a couple of events that are coming up in June," she answered, giving the couple an amused glance.

"Of course, I'm quite sure I'll be at your complete disposal by then," Watson assured her, before clearing his throat. "In the meantime, however, I believe the filing system in my practice is in such a mess that it may well take the bulk of the week to sort through it all," he lamented awkwardly, shifting a little in his seat as he turned back to his friend. "It may well be, Holmes that I won't be able to attend the concert young Sharapov is giving tomorrow that you were so keen on."

There was no denying the momentary flash of disappointment that cut across the detective's eyes as he sat back in his chair. "I see..." he murmured, "that is...unfortunate."

Standing so near, Helen could not fail to see the truth of his reaction, causing her to wish there something she could do, and with an expression of immediate sympathy, but knowing it was not her place to intrude, she turned to the papers to examine the method he was using to file them so as to give them some semblance of privacy. However, her own reaction was not entirely unobserved, for it was noted by Mary before the other woman could completely turn away, and catching her husband's eyes, shifted her own to Helenand then over to the detective, an unspoken prior conversation between husband and wife revisited in that one gesture.

"Yes...it is rather," the doctor agreed with his friend's summation, straightening in his seat after his wife's silent communiqué. "Dashed unfortunate. Perhaps, Holmes…" he suggested hesitantly, "rather then waste the opportunity, you should goon your own?"

"Alone?" Holmes repeated, glancing up at him. "Perhaps..." he murmured, thinking on it. "Though, I believe the experience to be a more rounded one when there is another to exchange thoughts with."

Helen nodded, as she shuffled a stack of papers. "I completely agree, Mr. Holmes," she added distantly. "On the few occasions I ever managed to go, it was alone, and though the experiences were still enjoyable, there is nothing like discussing the intricacies of concert with someone who has shared the experience.Afterwards, you may as well be trying to describe a painting to one who has never seen colours..." She glanced up from her abstracted comments to see them all watching her. "Oh..." she murmured self consciously. "I did not mean to interrupt your conversation...I apologise."

"No...no..." Watson responded hurriedly. "You did not. That was most succinctly put, Miss Thurlow, and it gives me pause for thought." His eyes found his wife's once more, his hands flexing somewhat anxiously. "Perhaps you might accompany Holmes in my place?" he ventured, before adding hastily. "It would not be untoward…as a friend of the family, I doubt anyone would find Holmes accompanying you inappropriate."

Holmes stiffened in his chair immediately; his eyes finding his colleague's and narrowing just as quickly, while Helen stared at the doctor as though he had just spoken of oysters taking over the world. After blinking several times, she found her voice, though her mind was still in shock. "I...I...do not know...I mean I do have to get home tomorrow to meet with the boys' music tutor...and I am not nearly qualified to discuss music as in depth as Mr. Holmes undoubtedly can..." Her voice trailed off, as she caught a glimmer of something in the doctor's eyes, causing her to wonder what the man was planning.

Holmes's thoughts, however, were already advanced far along on that path, and his eyes shifted to Mary, who suddenly found the pattern on the rug by her feet rather charmingly fascinating.

"Miss Thurlow, you underestimate yourself," Watson assured her with a smile, as he purposely avoided his friend's eyes. "You spent an entire evening together at Christmas doing just that. Holmes has an ear for music...and you have said often it is something you would like to cultivate in yourself. How much better to attend a concert with someone like that? And..." He sat back against the couch, his voice gaining confidence. "We had planned a matinee...not an evening performance. You could, if you wished, easily return home from the hotel afterwards?"

"Even so," she returned, catching his meaningful glance to his wife as he finished, and knowing for certain now that the doctor, undoubtedly under the sway of her well-meaning friend, was indeed up to something, "I am sure Mr. Holmes has much better things he can be doing with his afternoon..."

She wasn't entirely sure why she was arguing quite so strongly against this outing, for inwardly she greatly desired to attend the concert with him, both for the music and his company. Though, upon seeing his reaction to the suggestion, it seemed obvious to her that it was not what he wanted.

However, her last comment was precisely the opening Watson was looking for...giving him as it did an almost unassailable edge, and like a master chess player, he made his move. Arching one eyebrow, he smiled at her. "Other than being on a case, I fail to see how Holmes could possibly say he would be better employed, especially given that going to the concert was what we had planned for the afternoon in any event. But what say you, Holmes?" He turned that arched eyebrow slowly towards his friend, his nervousness forgotten in a sudden flush of enjoyment at his social coup de grace. "_Have_ you anything better to do than escort Miss Thurlow?"

Holmes's eyes did not so much as blink as he regarded his colleague. He had never expected Watson to be so devious a manipulator as this...and yet his Boswell had successfully manoeuvred him into a position he could not extricate himself from without embarrassing and belittling his guest and making himself appear to be a callous and arrogant buffoon.

His glare was gimlet-like as he watched the newlyweds, their plot nowclearly unfolded to him, and he barely contained a growl of exasperation at their meddling, as he forced himself to relax. "Of course not, Watson," he replied, his words and manner even. "I had that time put aside as you said...and I would be glad to escort Miss Thurlow, if she so wishes."

Helen watched the play between the two men, and felt her own levels of discomfort rocketing. If she were to decline, she would be insulting her detective friend, even though she firmly believed he would be more relieved than wounded. However, she was not exactly on firm footing around him, and still found it difficult to predict what he took to be an offence or not.

Inwardly sighing at the futility of it, as well as adding in her own very real desire to attend the concert with him, which in actuality only increased her anxieties, she swallowed and nodded, clutching the stack of papers like a lifeline. "If you do not mind...and are not averse to the fact thatI will very likely have many questions...I would be honoured to accompany you, Mr. Holmes."

The tall man nodded slowly. "Then, I shall meet you at Brown's Hotel tomorrow at say, one o'clock? If that is convenient?"

Feeling entirely wrong footed and confused, she nodded. "That will be fine...I'll telegram Mr. Sommers, the boys tutor, and travel to meet with him instead."

With another brief nod to her, he directed his attention back to the newlyweds. Mary, on seeing his look, rose gracefully if quickly to her feet. "John, we should depart. There is still work to be done, and I must prepare dinner," she told him smoothly, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Yes..." Watson agreed, all sense of cleverness dissipating rapidly under Holmes continued glare, as he rose up out of his chair. "We'd best be off."

His colleague barely moved a muscle as he replied, "Perhaps you'd best at that. Miss Thurlow and I will undoubtedly deal with the predicament you are leaving us with quite admirably." His words were laced with a dual meaning as well as a sharp edge. "Though, of course, we shall be discussing it at length next time we meet, my dear fellow."

The doctor offered him a weak smile, suddenly wondering how on earth Mary had convinced him that such a move was in their mutual friends' best interests, as he moved his way to the door and opened it for her. His wife, who was doing a slightly better job at hiding her nervousness from the detective, though she felt it all the same, gave him a quiet smile and farewell, before heading off down the stairs. Following her out hastily, Watson closed the door behind him.

Holmes regarded the portal in silence for a moment, before his eyes slid slowly back to his new concert companion for the morrow. Picking up his sheaf of papers again, he inhaled softly, and offered her a small blasé smile, indicating that nothing remotely untoward had happened. "Shall we?" he enquired, nodding towards the filing as he commenced to work once more.

* * *

_1st May, 1889_

The hansom drew up outside Brown's Hotel on Albemarle Street in the heart of Mayfair, stopping right outside the front entrance of the grand establishment in the heart of the city.

Stopped, but retained its passenger.

Inside, Holmes sat, his hands resting on his cane and a slight glower on his face, as he was faced with the rendezvous that Watson had deliberately engineered.

Just as he had feared, marriage and life with Mary had made his friend almost nauseatingly romantic...and like so many others in such a confused and debilitated state, he was determined that others should join him in it.

If misery loved company, then the romantically inclined were fanatical proselytisers determined to sweep all before them in a massive recruitment drive to their cause. He wasn't entirely sure what the Watsons' amorously hazed minds had drawn up with regards to Helen Thurlow and himself, but the scent of the matchmaker hung heavily over all this.

He was in half a mind to get the cabbie to drive on, and send a message and his apologies by saying he'd been delayed or called away, and in fact delayed so long on this thought that finally the cabbie tapped on the roof of the carriage.

"Brown's 'otel, guv," he called down.

"Yes, driver..." Holmes half snapped at him. "I am fully cognoscente of our location, thank you."

"Right you are then..." the cabbie replied, and after a long moment of silence, enquired, "Waiting for someone to come out, are we, sir?"

Holmes huffed, and went to alight, the driver's words forcing him to make some kind of movement. "Wait here. I'll be back in a moment."

"No problem, sir," the cabbie chirruped at him.

After climbing the four short steps, and moving through the door, which the porter had opened upon seeing his arrival, he removed his hat, and entered the large ornate foyer, only to see the young woman herself moving about in a mildly agitated looking state. "Miss Thurlow," he addressed her as he approached. "Good afternoon."

Helen stopped in mid pace, and turned to face him, trying to push back her very nervous thoughts and misgivings about the entire outing. "Mr. Holmes," she returned, praying her voice was at least calm and level. "A good afternoon to you as well."

"Is there something amiss?" he asked her, checking the time on the wall, and noting he was a good five minutes early.

However, she had already quickly crossed the room to arrive at his side. "Mr. Holmes," she began, formulating the thoughts that had been racing in her head since she had awoken that morning. "It was very thoughtful of the good doctor to think me a suitable replacement for himself this afternoon...but...I would completely understand if you wished to continue on by yourself. I fear Dr. Watson had some noble...if misguided...intentions, and though I appreciate your coming here, I would not want you to feel obligated in this situation."

He listened to her with a slightly arched eyebrow, as she pre-empted and voiced his thoughts before him. "I would be lying..." he replied truthfully, some of the tension ebbing out of him, and offering her a small smile, "if I did not say that I did not have adverse thoughts about this afternoon, and Watson's intentions in this regard. And I offer my most sincere apologies if you find this awkward in anyway. You may rest assured that my good friend will not, once I have spoken with him when next we meet, be making such suggestions again." His eyes glinted adamantly. "However, now that I am here, I am reminded that your company is in general quite welcome to me, and I see no particular reason why we should not attend a simple Mozart recital as friends."

She visibly relaxed at his apparent appeasement on the subject, and nodded. "Then if you are quite sure, I would be pleased to accompany you," she replied, returning his smile, as she buttoned up her tailored lightweight coat.

"Good," he returned, proffering an arm towards her. "I understand Sharapov is quite accomplished, and his rendition of the chosen concertos should be interesting and entertaining." And with that, he led her outside and to the awaiting carriage.

* * *

A short time later, they pulled up outside St. James's Hall and disembarked, as were others arriving for the recital. "There appears to be a good attendance for an afternoon session," he observed. 

"Yes," she agreed, taking in the interesting mix of the crowd, as they entered the building presented the tickets, and took their seats. "According to the program, he has played in numerous countries." Her tone was appreciative as she turned to look at her companion. "You are quite accomplished yourself…the doctor is quite vociferous in that regard."

"Watson, as usual, overstates the case," he replied, as he took in the venue around them.

"But I have heard you play…" she pressed with a frown, her eyes puzzled.

"I play...I am not however what I would describe as accomplished," he informed her. "I play to help motivate my mind...I find it relaxing."

"I see," she answered with a nod. "Then it is not only a past-time but a useful component to your work. Would it be bold of me to say I hope to hear you play someday? Apart from the short pieces I've heard on entering your building or outside on the doorstep."

"Not bold, no," he responded lightly. "Foolhardy perhaps."

Helen dipped her head, as she smiled. "Nevertheless, I'll look forward to it."

"If you are set upon it," he acquiesced, though silently pleased. "In the meantime, let us hear how a truly accomplished professional performs." He nodded towards the stage, as the small accompanying orchestra took their seats to be followed on stage by the visiting Russian violinist to polite applause all around.

The dark, long haired young man began to play the Rondeau Allegro that signalled the beginning of Mozart's 2nd Violin Concerto. By halfway through the following Allegro, Helen was sitting forward in her seat, her face in rapt attention as her eyes watched how he played, occasionally closing as the music washed over her, a tiny blissful smile on her lips.

Holmes, while enjoying the music, found himself distracted by his companion's actions. Watson, though appreciative, was in general as reactive as a stone during events such as this, for the doctor enjoyed the music, but that was the sum total of his response for the most part. He was unused to being with someone whose responses were so natural and wholehearted as he was witnessing, and he found his enjoyment and anticipation of the proceedings gradually increased as he saw her own. Stifling a small smile, he sat back and steepled his fingers, his index fingers rubbing lightly over his lips as he pondered the music, and the unexpected pleasance of a different musical companion such as she.

As Sharapov paused between selections, Helen's eyes opened as she sat back in her chair, though catching her companion's gaze on her, blushed slightly, and gave him a tiny smile, before focusing her attentions once more on the stage. As the violinist began anew, she again found the music intriguing and capturing her, and yet, could not completely lose herself to it as she had before. Instead, she found herself sneaking tiny glimpses at the detective, only to see his eyes were now tightly closed, and his head was dipping and bobbing along with the notes, as if he was seeing the sheet music in front him.

The look of serenity on his face, however, was what really caught her attention. It was a sight she had never remembered seeing on him before. It was as if all the cares in the world had melted away, and there was only the music and him, and in spite of herself, she felt a surge of emotion for the man.

Turning her eyes away from him quickly, she berated herself thoroughly. Yes, he was an intriguing, interesting, and imposing man…and the manner of his handling the Lucifer Hunt case had made a lasting impression on her, what with his focus, drive, and athleticism. He was a unique man...and he was her friend...nothing more. With a firm, inward nod at thought, she focused again on the music, and let its sweet tones carry her away from those confusing and intriguing thoughts of her companion.

* * *

The recital proved to be excellent in his estimation, and as it came towards its finish, Holmes glanced once more at the woman next to him to see that his own conclusions had apparently been drawn by her as well. Her smile broad and contented, her eyes bright and appreciative, she was, he decided in that moment, a most handsome young woman...her innate intelligence, combined with her curiosity about the world in general and thirst for knowledge, only added to the attractive air around her. 

Money or no money, it seemed surprising to him that no man had ever sought to take her for a wife, given what else was in offer in the female line, they could do a great deal worse in his experience. Standing to applaud as Sharapov ended his concert, Holmes was joined in his "Bravas and Encores" by her, her appreciation just as great as his, and it was with a small smile and a slight bow, he indicated for her to take her seat before him, as Sharapov returned to play once more.

With a smile of her own, Helen resumed her seat, her eyes not leaving him until he had as well. Settling back, she folded her hands on her lap, and once again focused her attention on the young Russian. However, upon feeling the subtle tingling up her spine that was a clear indication that she was being watched, she turned her head just a little only to meet her companion's gaze full on.

His eyes held hers for a moment, though his own were enigmatic, until another small hint of a smile touched his face, and he turned his attention back to Haydn's _Serenade_, which the young maestro was so adeptly playing with the aide of the string section of his small orchestra; the rather light, gentle, quiet piece seeming to fit the moment rather nicely.

With a tiny smile of her own, she turned back to the recital, her mind pondering and curious to know what that had been all about. Deciding to take his interest as a compliment, she closed her eyes, and let her thoughts drift away on the tide of the music.

As the recital ended and Sharapov went off stage for the final time, Holmes moved to help her on with her coat, holding it up for her to slip her arms into. "You enjoyed it," he stated rather than asked.

"Oh yes!" she enthused with a broad smile. "He was excellent!" Seeing the expression of amusement on his face at her emphatic words, she blushed lightly, and forced herself to regain her composure. "You appeared to enjoy it as well," she added, her tone more its usual soft level.

"Yes," he agreed, sliding his own coat back on and picking up his hat and cane. "He melded technique and emotion exceptionally well, I thought." His eyes turned to the stage, as he pronounced quietly, "When cool clinical art can be married with just the right amount of passion and emotion, it can prove to be a sublime and memorable combination."

"It's all about balance," she agreed, her tone as soft as his, as her eyes followed his.

His gazewas thoughtful for a moment, before he glanced back at her quickly, his words brisk but friendly. "Would you care to take tea with me?" he asked. "If you have time before you must return to your hotel, that is?"

Fighting back another surge of warmth, she inclined her head in agreement. "I have time before I must pack and catch the train home. Tea would be most welcome," she accepted, focusing her eyes on his, and not the line of his jaw, or the long aquiline shape of his nose, or how his eyes glinted in the light with a fire all their own.

Nodding his head in silence, he reached out and offered her his hand to help guide her out of the row of seats, and with a soft smile, on impulse she daringly pocketed her gloves and slid her hand into his. Her un-gloved hand slipping into his brought with it an unusual warmth that did not stop at the touch of her flesh on his, the heat spreading outwards over her in small spikes.

Still placid and composed, seemingly unaware of her societal faux pas, he led her from the row of seating, and once out onto the aisle, he wrapped her arm around his and they walked in tandem from the hall and back out onto the streets beyond.

"I believe..." he mused, as he found his bearings, "if memory serves...there is a small tea shop on St. Martin's row, the next corner but one."

Walking on, they continued their conversation on the concert, until they arrived, and settled into the small and cosy local tea shop known as Mrs. Burton's. There, neatly cut sandwiches and a variety of scones with homemade strawberry preserve and Devonshire clotted cream were presented to them along with their tea.

Taking a bite of her scone, Helen made a small hum of approval. "Very tasty," she murmured appreciatively, after she'd swallowed.

Choosing not to eat, he nodded in reply. "So, shall I report to Watson that his mission was at least partially a success, and you enjoyed your afternoon?"

She chuckled, and took a sip of her tea. "You may report what you like, Mr. Holmes, in terms of his mission. But yes, I did have a most enjoyable afternoon."

"One should always endeavour to widen one's social circle, I am told," he pondered, watching her as she ate. "I have never been one to follow that advice, however, and have always found a few close intimates to be infinitely preferable to a wide circle of acquaintances...however, on this occasion, I believe I am glad to have extended my admittedly small list of concert going friends."

A slight blush spread over her cheeks, which was followed closely by a pleased expression. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she returned sincerely. "And if it not a liberty to say so, I hope that this will be the first of such outings."

"I'm sure there will be other occasions," he assured her, almost sure of it, given that he was certain Watson would, for the time being at least, be more absent than usual from his life.

She smiled and took another sip of her tea. "How goes your work?" she asked, always interested to hear about his cases, and not just the exciting ones and tidbits.

"I am in the process of writing several papers at the moment, and my last case finished just under a month ago. The apparent suicide in Exeter of the young heir to a diamond mine in Southern Africa," he replied.

"What are they about?" she enquired. "Your papers, I mean."

"One involves investigating the usage of a person's physical idiosyncrasies for the purpose of detecting whether or not they were implicitly involved in a crime," he answered, picking up his tea.

"Like facial expressions and nervous looks in the eyes?" she asked, taking another bite of her scone.

"No...not quite...something far more basic than that...may I?" he queried, holding out his hand to her, and after wiping the corners of her mouth quickly, she placed her hand in his.

Turning it palm upwards, he stretched out her hand. "A young French scientist discovered that much like each snowflake that falls upon the earth has a unique pattern all its own, so too do humans. Not just in their facial features, but here..." his finger brushed the palm of her hand gently, "and most especially here." His touch swept upwards, extending to the fingertips of her hand, his mind so purely focused on his explanation of scientific fact that he was unaware of the affect he was having on his subject. "If you look closely, you can see a swirling pattern on each finger tip. In every human that walks this earth that pattern is different…distinct. I am extrapolating on the work of Dr. Henry Faulds, a surgeon based in Tokyo, and have been in contact with Sir Francis Galton, a relative of Mr. Darwin, who is interested in working on a book on the subject of 'fingerprinting.' However, while he talks of using them to ascertain racial and intelligence quotients, something I have my doubts about…I am looking for a more practical context for the use of such unique identifying markers."

Swallowing lightly, Helen forced her eyes to her fingertips and nodded. "Fingerprints...so when one finds these at a crime scene...you can trace it back to the individual who made them?" she asked, seeing where he was going with this, and forcing herself to keep from shivering as his finger brushed over her hand.

She cursed herself once again for her reaction. The man was a confirmed bachelor. He spurned the idea of love...it was not even a part of his life. He was also her friend, and she was thankful for that. She had few true friends, especially ones that stimulated her mind as much as he. Yes...she was just reacting to that, she told herself. There was nothing there...there could be nothing there...there _would_ be nothing there.

"Yes..." he replied, oblivious to her inner remonstrations, "it is something I have already talked to Scotland Yard of, so the idea has been percolating for some time in the force, but my thoughts are more coherent and far ranging in this paper. I believe one can create a filing system, a data base of fingerprints, and every criminal that is arrested must have his or her fingerprints put on file...then if a crime is committed, they can be checked against them if they are suspected. Or all suspects criminal or not can be tested to discover the truth." Releasing her hand, he leaned back once more. "It will take time to achieve such a thing...but it could cut the length of police detection techniques quite considerably."

She pulled back her arm, and quickly retrieved her tea cup, trying not to shiver. "Ingenious," she commented, her tone showing how impressed she was. "I can definitely see the benefits of such a system. What is the other paper?"

He hesitated, before answering. "The other paper is for a criminal psychological journal," he said softly, as he took a sip of his tea.

Her eyebrow quirked up in interest. "Really? About what?" she asked full of curiosity.

"It is perhaps not a subject suitable for a lady's sensibilities or public discussion," he said quietly.

With a frown, she glanced down, the disappointment seeping onto her face. "Oh...I see," she replied quickly, and took another bite of her scone.

He could see the expression on her face, and pursed his lips slightly, weighing a decision. "You wish to know?"

Her eyes almost shot up back to meet his, causing her to feel a twinge of embarrassment that she hadn't been quicker to hide her thoughts. "Only if you wish to tell me," she assured him.

He lowered his voice considerably. "It is a paper regarding the link between violent criminals and the carnal act."

Her eyes widened in interest, already suspecting from his reluctance to speak that it would either have to do with corpses or sexuality. "Really?" she whispered back, her curiosity once again overriding her propriety. "There's a link? What kind? And how?"

He gazed at her in mild surprise. "Your curiosity is unusually high, Miss Thurlow."

A deeper blush spread over her cheeks, as she remembered herself. "I...I apologise," she said hurriedly, retreating back in her chair. "It was just rather fascinating to me that an act of love and devotion should be responsible for violence. I am aware there is a...seedy...side to it...but not to violent criminals." She glanced down at her tea. "I'm afraid my mind once again worked faster than my mouth...again...I apologise."

"There is no need to apologise," he told her. "It was not an admonishment, merely an expression of surprise. Most women would not have been interested in the papers in the first place, and would have feigned a kind of fake modesty that frankly is quite annoying when you know the truth is they wish to ask the questions you did without hesitation. I admire that."

She turned her eyes back to his, before giving him a hesitant smile. "Oh...well...as you know...I don't ask things I don't want the answer to...and if I was not interested, be sure I would not have asked at all or I would have said so."

Knowing that was true, he nodded, keeping his voice low. "Very well…the connection between the acts starts in the fat that the act of carnality itself is a culmination of basic animalistic needs. The urge to violence is also an animalistic response...and throughout nature both are entwined. The theory goes that in some criminals, they are so entwined that the act of violence is in and of itself an attempt at sexual gratification. The paper is in essence an exploration of that theory based on research I have done."

Her brow furrowed, as she took that in. "So you are saying that the pleasure that comes from the act of love...or lust in this case...is the same sort that these criminals feel when they commit a violent act?"

"In some cases, yes," he replied with a nod. "There is the thrill of sexual gratification...sex and violence becoming one in their minds...violence often subsuming the other so that the only gratification they can get is through it."

"Interesting," she mused, shaking her head slightly, before biting her lip, her voice hesitant as she asked, "You said you have done...research? Did you interview such men?"

"Over time, yes," he answered, before taking another sip of his tea.

She nodded, and leaned forward. "How long has this taken you? It sounds very in depth. In fact, both your papers seem very in depth."

"The fingerprints are a recent discovery...the other paper, well interviews would go back almost six or seven years now, both free men and incarcerated."

She appeared nothing short of impressed. "Amazing...I would think it is very gratifying to see it all coming together now."

"It is," he agreed. "That is why I am not too upset at my current case load being somewhat shy."

She smiled, and took a sip from her tea. "Oh...and you mentioned you just finished up a case...a possible suicide?" she asked, as though just remembering that, having been more interested in the other pursuits. "Was it a suicide?"

"No...sadly it was not..." he answered, wiping his hands with his napkin. "The boy was killed by his uncle."

She sighed. "Ah...for the fortune, I take it?"

"The lack of it..." he said, his expression regretful. "The uncle was in charge of the firm for sometime, and had squandered and gambled most of it away. The boy was on the verge of taking up his position, and there was only one way his uncle could keep his profligacy under wraps...and keep the position he had become to regard as his rightful one."

Shaking her head, she sighed once more. "Dirty secrets are like bad pennies...they always turn up in the end."

"True," he agreed with an incline of his head. "You can plan and scheme to hide things...however, sooner or later a trail is always exposed which I and others who hold to my methods follow to their inevitable conclusion."

"I suppose we should all pay more attention to the lesson of honesty being the best policy," she voiced with a smile.

He chuckled a little at that. "Yes...it seems wisest...especially around curious people like ourselves."

Her smile widened, as she took another sip of tea.

"And now I must be honest and suggest that you should return to Brown's and prepare for your train trip home," he told her, glancing at the clock on the wall behind her. "Time is fleeting, as always."

Following his gaze, she turned and glanced over as well, her eyes widening a little. "Oh my...yes...tempus fugit," she agreed, turning back to him.

"We should find you a cab," he stated, reaching for his wallet to pay for tea.

With a nod, she rose to her feet, and sliding on her coat, a little disappointed he would not be accompanying her back to the hotel, but not letting it show. "Of course," she agreed.

Standing as well, he left a most generous ten shilling note on the table, before following suit with his coat, and making his way to the door to open it for her.

With a nod of thanks, she stepped outside into the warm May afternoon air, and glanced around for a cab.

After a few moments, one rounded the corner on the far side of the road with its sign reading 'For Hire.'

"Cab!" Holmes called out, moving towards it, as he hailed it down.

"One to Mayfair, Brown's Hotel," he instructed, as the driver pulled in.

"Yes, sir," he replied with a nod, as the detective opened the door and beckoned the young woman over.

Crossing over to him, she held out her hand. "Thank you again, Mr. Holmes. I had a lovely time."

He took it, and after a moment, kissed it briefly and in a gentlemanly fashion. "It was enjoyable," he admitted, helping her into the carriage and closing the door. Taking her in through the open window, he shot her a small smile. "We shall do it again some time. Good afternoon, Miss Thurlow. My best to your family, and safe home."

She smiled and nodded. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," she returned, before the cab sped off down the street.

Swinging out his cane, Holmes made to walk home, reminding himself not to appear too content when he arrived there so that Mrs. Hudson couldn't inform on him to Watson as to his relatively good mood. The doctor was scheming, of that he was sure, but this was one scheme that would not come to fruition. Yes, she had proven to be a most amiable of companions, intelligent and curious enough not to bore him, and she was, as he had decided, an attractive woman...but whatever Watson was hoping for, that would be as far as it would go. On the subject of love and romance...Sherlock Holmes was not for turning.

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Welcome back! We hope you enjoyed the latest chapter, and what can I say about the last few reviews we have received...they took both our breaths away! VampireNaomi...your words had me in tears...happy ones for certain, but that was one of the most beautiful and precise reviews we have ever received, and it really touched me. Thank you. Indeed, thank you all for the kind words you give us each week, and for the critiques as well! I always want to know where we can improve, and am now making a list to refer to so that we hopefully do:D We are also both thrilled you all enjoyed the wedding, that was seriously long overdue in my opinion, of Watson and Mary...and rest assured Mary is here to stay:D So to sum up, as I must post this chapter before I deal with motor vehicles today...thank you all to everyone who reads and/or reviews! We appreciate each and every one of you. We hope to have chapter ten ready for next week...cross fingers! Hugs to all! Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**


	10. Whisper of the Garden

_Chapter Ten: "Whisper of the Garden"_

_14th May, 1889_

It was a fittingly bright and cheery Tuesday early afternoon in mid May when a smiling Dr. John Watson stepped out of the hansom cab newly arrived at 221b Baker Street. Although perhaps it was more fitting to say that he bounded from the carriage with all the expected glee of a ten year old who had just found that he had been given the pet he had always asked for. He was nearly at the door before he suddenly skidded to a halt, and with many effusive apologies, turned back to pay the bemused driver before swiftly moving back to his intended destination, his bag swinging jauntily in his hand as he rang the doorbell.

After a few moments, as ever, Mrs. Hudson appeared to open the door, her face breaking immediately into a smile that reflected the beaming face awaiting her on the doorstep. "Good afternoon, Doctor! You're looking remarkably chipper today!"

"And a good afternoon to you, Mrs. Hudson! Isn't it a glorious afternoon?" he replied, as she stepped back to allow him inside. "Is Holmes at home?"

"Just finishing lunch, Doctor," she answered with a nod. "Or what passes for lunch with him," she huffed slightly.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed, already heading up the stairs after hanging his bowler hat on the peg by the door. "I'll just head on up then."

"Come in, Watson," Holmes called loudly prior to the door opening, not looking up from his perusal of the last of his morning papers, while in one hand a half eaten sandwich seemed permanently poised midway between his plate and his mouth. "You're early...and from the sound of it, just as enthused as I expected."

Opening the door, entering, and placing his bag down on the side table by the door, Watson strode over to his friend, pulling out a large thick card from his inside jacket pocket. "Indeed I am! _I_, and Mary too of course, have just been invited to the Prince of Wales's Charity Rose Ball! I cannot wait to tell Mary...she'll be utterly over the moon, old man!"

Holmes's eyes not did not move so much as an inch from the paper he was reading, his manner completely unsurprised. "The Kew Gardens affair on the thirty-first. Yes. I had heard there was a scramble for invitations even amongst the more prominent nobility." He absently pointed at his desk with the finger of the hand holding the half eaten sandwich. "My invitation arrived courtesy of Mr. Martin Yeates this morning, and he informed me yours was delivered by courier to your practice. He asked me to convey his thanks to you once more, and hopes this might in some small way convey that gratitude. Apparently one of his uncles, a Sir Ralph Yeates-Lavelle, joined the Prince's staff," he informed him, sounding markedly underwhelmed. "He felt invitations to this exclusive event were the least he could do for our help over that Lucifer's Playground matter...personally I was rather more concerned with his keeping our bargain on his restitution for past deeds." He turned the page of his paper slowly. "Which I'm pleased to say he's doing admirably."

"What a kind gesture!" Watson wholeheartedly acknowledged, not entirely shocked that his friend was not the least bit enthusiastic about the event. "And that is wonderful to hear," he added, continuing to beam at the detective as he took his seat across from him.

His friend nodded. "Yes, it is encouraging...his reparations and repentance for his life of gentlemanly burglary continues apace, and he informs me that our wronged Mr. Pearson and his young widow have been happily married, and are comfortably settled thanks to the 'dowry' he gave them." There was a note of great satisfaction in his voice as he relayed the news, the index finger of his other hand tracing the page of the _Daily Telegraph_, his eyes following along. "As for the Rose Ball, and His Highness's invitation, I'm sure you and Mary will have a fine time."

Watson stared at him for a full minute. "You are not coming?" he breathed, unsure if he had heard correctly.

"A sharp deduction, Watson," Holmes responded with the slightest of smiles, before glancing up from the paper. "I am not," he confirmed stoutly.

"But _why_?" the doctor gaped. "This is the Rose Ball! The newspapers have been full of nothing else for months! Invitations are rarer then hen's teeth! You must go! Oh dear fellow...you really should think about this..."

"I have thought about it, Watson...I gave it, oh...at least a full five seconds of my time before I disregarded it entirely," he cut in, and at last placed the hovering sandwich back down on the plate. "Prince of Wales or not, Charity Rose Ball or not, you know my feelings on these overblown social events."

"Yes...but...still, it's for charity, and from reports, it promises to be a once in a lifetime event! The preparations alone are causing…" The older man paused, his brow creased as he remembered something. "What about Miss Thurlow, Holmes? Did she receive an invitation?"

"Mr. Yeates made no indication of it," Holmes replied, pouring himself another cup of tea. "He distinctly said the number of invitations he received from his uncle, quite apart from his own, of course, were two in number - one for yourself and Mary, and one for myself and a guest." He set about adding milk and sugar to his beverage.

The other man's eyes widened. "Well, that won't do! She was a great help to you in the investigation, and not inviting her...well...it just isn't cricket."

Holmes raised an eyebrow at his friend's vehemence over the teacup that was now raised to his lips. Lowering it somewhat, he gazed at him with tolerant amusement. "I'm sure Mr. Yeates meant no disrespect to the excellent Miss Thurlow. He is most probably unaware of her being instrumental in our being called in on the case...and the subsequent part she played alongside ourselves." He moved the teapot towards the doctor. "Please, help yourself, Watson."

Nodding his thanks, his friend's face was marked with a frown of concern as he rose to his feet. "Well, there's nothing for it," he subsequently concluded with determination, retrieving a second cup and pouring himself some tea. "She simply must go. It is only right and fair. Even more so as she is now out of full mourning, which will make matters easier."

"You are assuming, of course, that she wishes to go, Watson. As it stands, I would gladly forward the invitation to her, but it is clearly made out to myself, and I have sincere doubts that Miss Thurlow could pass for me, even in the worst of light," the detective pointed out with a smile.

Watson froze in mid stir, a light suddenly appearing in his eyes as an idea presented itself, and as his head rose the smile forming on his lips was plain to see.

Holmes caught it immediately, and lowered his cup to its saucer. "Watson, whatever it is that has come into that misguided mind of yours, dispense with it directly. Your obvious manipulations last month with regards to Miss Thurlow and myself were quite discomforting enough. Do not compound your error any further with more unsubtle and futile matchmaking. You know my thoughts on social events...you know even better my thoughts on women and romance!"

Reddening slightly at the reminder of the exceptionally stern lecture he had received from his friend in the aftermath of Mary and his own attempted matchmaking in the form of a concert engagement, the doctor shook his head quickly. "No, no, old man! Perish the thought! No, I have merely found a way that Miss Thurlow can attend the Ball," he assured the suspicious consulting detective. "I obviously cannot escort her, as I will be escorting Mary, but you could...as a friend only, of course! You have a guest space upon your invitation…and after all, it is only right that she receive thanks and the reward for a job well done as well. And since she will not be able to participate fully in the festivities...you will not even have to dance with her!"

Still watching him warily, Holmes weighed Watson's words carefully, eventually having to confess to himself, albeit grudgingly, that they held at least a modicum of merit. "She does deserve the thanks of Mr. Yeates as much as we do...of that there can be no doubt," he admitted, his brow creasing a little, as his long fingers began to thrum on the desk. "And it's true that while her escort, I should not be obliged to dance with her due to her remaining in half mourning. Still…" he added, "Miss Thurlow will not be the only woman in the place, and all of them will be highly disposed towards a waltz, a gavotte, or a polka!"

His face reflected more than a measure of distaste at the idea of having to submit himself to such a possibility, but gradually became a veritable picture of dramatically resigned self sacrifice as he resolved that he would simply have to venture into the proverbial lion's den for the sake of a friend and what was the 'right thing to do.'

A moment later, however, his eyes narrowed again at his colleague. "Watson, if I do accept to go _and_ to invite Miss Thurlow, I shall require a serious undertaking from both you and your lady wife to refrain from indulging the nuptial haze you are currently wallowing in with any further attempts at fostering romantic feeling where none exists." He picked up his teacup once more. "There is nothing but friendly feeling for Miss Thurlow on my part...and on hers also. Do I have your word on your own and Mary's behalf?"

The doctor nodded quickly in reply. "Of course! Of course! No matchmaking, I promise. And I am sure Miss Thurlow will be pleased to see you. After all, she commented to Mary last week that she enjoys your conversations...from a purely intellectual perspective, of course," he added hurriedly, determined to avoid another prolonged lecture. "I am sure you will both entertain yourselves accordingly."

Holmes gauged his friend's reaction carefully, before releasing the long suffering sigh that had been threatening to emerge ever since he realised that he had been caught up in Yeates's obligation to their friend. "Very well..." he agreed, shaking his head, as if facing the most arduous of chores in the attendance of this ball, "I will send her a telegram informing her of the invitation and asking to see if she would care to accompany me."

"Excellent!" came the exuberant exclamation of his friend. "Now! What can I aid you with today?"

Putting aside his disgruntlement, Holmes brightened significantly at the prospect of work. Picking up the pages of the_ Telegraph_, he leaned forward, handing them to the doctor, a veritable gleam in his eye as he pointed to a story of a break in to a foundry on page three. "Tell me now, Watson, what do you make of that?"

* * *

_31st May, 1889_

In the distance, the bells of St. Mary le Strand had long since struck seven, the clock now nearing seven-thirty as the hired brougham trundled down en route from Charing Cross towards the Strand, Temple, and the Embankment of the Thames with its lone passenger seated inside, resplendent in a dove grey gown of silk and ribbons that perfectly matched her wide and currently anxiety-filled eyes. Reaching a gloved hand up to her hair, Helen nervously fiddled with the long spiralled curls that hung loose down her back, though most of her hair was caught up in loose twists.

She still could not believe she was en route to the Rose Ball, and was still rather stunned that it was Mr. Holmes of all people who asked her to accompany him. He had stated his reasons plainly enough, and she was immensely flattered and gratified that he wished to include her in the 'spoils' of the Lucifer Hunt case as it were. However, even though he had clearly underlined the 'practicality' of the evening by suggesting they meet rather than his collecting her, the receipt of his invitation and the idea of spending an evening with him in such grand and beautiful surrounds had made her stomach jump and her heart race in so worrying a way that she knew it could cause nothing but trouble, most especially for her.

Having turned down from South Street onto Strand and gazing out at Strand Palace as they approached, she was both eagerly awaiting and dreading the evening ahead. On the positive side, it was tremendously exciting to be part of something so unique and spectacular...and the chance of meeting the Prince of Wales was to be a stunning high point. It was hard to fathom how far she had come in so short a time, from struggling seamstress living in near squalor in a run down two roomed flat in Camden to this. However, her excitement was tempered by these affectionate feelings for her friend, rescuer, and escort, feelings that she was now forced to admit had been growing slowly for months and which had only been exacerbated by their concert engagement a month previous, and that, try as she might, would not leave her in peace.

The harder she denied them, the stronger they returned. There wasn't a day that had passed since Sharapov's concert that her mind hadn't turned to him, wondering where he was and what it was he was doing. It had disappointed her terribly that Dr. Watson, in the aftermath of that concert and for some hasty reason, had switched her subsequent appointments with him to his practice. She had understood that it was indeed more practical given his new marital circumstances, though she feared the truth of it had much more to do with the talk that Mr. Holmes had informed her he would be having with his medical friend.

She could well imagine what had been said - the most strenuous of reproaches to the good doctor, and a stern dressing down for daring to attempt to suggest in a roundabout fashion that Holmes might do well to think on _her_ in a romantic fashion. Dwelling on such thoughts and the words that passed from the imagined Mr. Holmes's lips in denial of that fact proved to be more distressing than she cared for.

In any event, for whatever reason, the good doctor had changed the venue, and the outcome of which was that it deprived her of the legitimate opportunity to interact with Holmes, which in turn had only increased her thoughts of him. So much so that now, she was terrified that she would do or say something to the recipient of her tender musings on meeting him again, or that would turn her into one of those gushing female aficionados that made him cringe and set him to flight, thereby threatening their carefully constructed friendship. A friendship that she would not see harmed for all the world.

A moment later, she was jarred out of her thoughts as the carriage came to a halt beside a barrier on the turn down to Lancaster Place and Waterloo Bridge, which in turn would lead them to Victoria Embankment and her embarkation point. This sentry post was manned by a group of very business-like policemen, who upon finding her name upon a list politely wished her a good evening before allowing her to continue on both in journey and in thoughts.

Forcing her mind away from Holmes, she concentrated again on the reality facing her and the benefits of the night, so that by the time the carriage pulled up behind a stream of others moving along the tree lined embankment towards Cleopatra's Needle, the two bronze sphinxes, and the massively long and plush red carpet which had been laid beyond them, she was again sufficiently excited for the night to begin, and determined to put only friendship on the evening's agenda.

As she alit from the carriage and joined the throng of equally anticipatory guests on the walk along the scarlet runner, they were watched from some distance from behind more barriers at either end of the Embankment at Northumberland Avenue and Temple by what appeared to be half of London. Walking with the other invitees towards the stewards, she watched as they directed their eminent passengers to one or other of the brightly illuminated river boats that stood awaiting them at Charing Cross Pier in the gradually gathering dusk.

Both boats were festooned with literally hundreds of small, ornate pagoda style lanterns especially made for the occasion, which were lit and draped from stem to stern, and strung in lines from stack to prow. Soft renditions of Handel's Water Music emanated from the string quartets on each, as the vessels stood ready and waiting for the elegant and smooth champagne cruise up the Thames towards Richmond and Kew Gardens.

Beyond the stewards, on the bank near one of the carpeted gangways, Holmes withdrew his gaze from the watching crowd towards the Tower Bridge side of the Embankment, and turned back towards Watson and Mary. Both men were pristine in their dress suits, the fine, warm, late May evening making the overcoats and hats they had draped over their arms redundant for the moment. Clad in a beautiful blue satin off the shoulder gown, her hair in blonde ringlets, Mary listened with apparent nervousness to her husband's soft words, as he pointed out certain luminaries and nobility approaching along the carpet as they waited.

Holmes's eyes drifted back over the line, his height giving him an advantage, and raised his chin on spotting whom they were waiting for. "Ah..." he said, "here is Miss Thurlow now." His head cocked slightly on taking in her gown. "I must confess it is something of a relief to see her out of the black of mourning."

Following the detective's gaze, Mary's blue eyes widened, not having seen her friend since she had officially come out of full mourning a week previous. "Oh my, John...she looks stunning!" she breathed. "Indeed...colour suits her much better, Sherlock...though she looks more than a little nervous."

Watson nodded in agreement. "You're quite right, my dear…on both counts." His eyes twinkled, as he smiled at her. "The two of you make quite the matching pair in that regard...on both counts."

Mary gave her husband a shy smile. "Well, it is not every day one meets the heir to the throne, my dearest."

"Quite true," he admitted. "Quite true...and it is not every day he gets to meet someone as charming as you. I'll have to watch my step...and his," he harrumphed jokingly.

She chuckled softly, and squeezed his arm. "On that count, you never have to fear."

Holmes stifled a sigh at the couple's to and fro, having been in its presence since he had arrived in the carriage to collect them from their home. "I believe," he cut in, formulating his temporary escape, "I will escort Miss Thurlow the rest of the way to expedite her passage past the stewards." Giving Mary a quick bow and handing Watson his coat and hat, he turned on his heel, and moved down the carpet in singular opposition to the noble traffic towards his quarry.

Helen, for her part, had slowly been making her way down the carpet in an attempt to use the time to bolster her resolve; however, as she turned her head to see how close she was to the boats, she caught sight of her approaching escort as he strode with a calm and consummately self possessed air down the walkway to her in the late evening sunshine, her breath hitching at how his perfectly his suit was tailored to his long, lean frame.

"Miss Thurlow," he greeted her, stopping by her side and bowing before offering her his hand. "Good evening."

Swallowing lightly, and hoping with her entire being that he would take any stumbling as nervousness to the surroundings, she forced herself to take his hand. "Good evening," she replied, praying her voice was at least level. "It is good to see you once more, Mr. Holmes."

"A pleasure as always," he returned smoothly, bending over her gloved hand and lightly kissing it.

Inwardly cursing the odd flush that shot through her, she managed to give him a friendly smile as he straightened. "And how have you been? I believe the last time I saw you was at the concert," she opined, marvelling that she was able to sound so casual about it.

"I have been passably well, thank you. Busy thankfully…an innocuous theft of steel at an iron foundry that turned out to have more far reaching implications for state security…most interesting, I shall have to tell you of it some time," he replied, offering her his arm. "Though we have yet to continue our discussions from the concert, our last time together as you say." He peered down the slow moving line before drawing her out of it. "A shame, as it was quite enjoyable."

"Only passably well?" she enquired teasingly, a small smile on her lips at his alert manner and his admission that he was keen on further conversation with her. "Yes, I must admit I too found it regrettable that we could not talk more," she understated in the most profound of manners. "Tell me, how fare your articles? Have you managed to complete them?"

Looking eminently pleased at her inquiry and continued interest in the subject, he smiled contentedly. "Indeed, I have. I finished them just days after that. Since then, both have been submitted to and straight away accepted by varying distinguished journals."

He paused for just a moment, and then without any warning whatsoever, took her with him as he walked briskly along the edge of the carpet, straight past the line of now queuing guests towards the stewards, stopping only to say, "Miss Helen Thurlow, she is on my invitation," to the Chief Steward. The unfortunate man could only look after them in the most startled fashion, as he was brushed past and left frantically to search his list for the name, while the other stewards dealt with the huffs of indignation from the other guests. Holmes, oblivious to them all, led Helen straight to Watson and Mary.

Flashing an apologetic smile back at the frazzled steward, Helen hurried along side of him as best she could, one of his strides equalling nearly two of her steps, and she was more than a little relieved, if slightly winded, when they reached their friends.

"Good evening, Doctor...Mary," she greeted them with a smile, as they watched their approach with an odd mixture of mild mortification and resigned amusement at Holmes's impatient nature.

"Good evening, Miss Thurlow." Watson took her hand as she moved it from Holmes's arm in greeting and bowed over it. "You look perfectly charming this evening. Holmes and I are fortunate men indeed in the attractiveness of our companions."

Helen gave him a warm, shy smile in return. "Thank you, Doctor, you are too kind as always...though indeed Mary, you look quite amazing this evening!"

The blond woman smiled, and took a step to give her friend a quick hug, as her husband moved aside. "Thank you, Helen...but it is you that looks wondrous. That dress most certainly suits your eyes. And your hair is quite delightful!"

Holmes's attention drifted quickly as the exchange of feminine pleasantries went on, his own eyes moving from the arriving guests to fix once again on the crowd nearest the Westminster end of the Embankment. "The police are far too lax in their duties," he commented in contrast to the discussion of dresses and hair.

Helen blinked, and turned to follow his gaze. "What makes you say that, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired.

"I number amongst our fellow guests this evening, at least three Members of Parliament, who would be and in fact are excellent targets for political assassination...and two Foreign Dignitaries whose unpopularity in some of our more extreme domestic groupings would see them equally prime for such treatment. Those people are far too close...one well aimed shot with a long barrelled hand gun or rifle, and we could have an international incident and not a glorified garden party."

Watson gazed at the distant crowd. "Really, Holmes...that suspicious mind of yours. The chances of that happening are..."

"Far higher than you would care to admit," Holmes finished, turning back to him.

Shaking his head, the doctor clapped his shoulder. "Admit it, Holmes, you are seeking divertissement from what you fear will be a dreary evening amongst the flowers."

"It is not the flowers I seek divertissement from, Watson," his friend replied, watching the parade of the great and the greatly wealthy. "The flowers and I get along splendidly."

"Well then, Holmes...consider us all fragrant blossoms for the evening," Watson returned with a chuckle.

The detective huffed as he was flagrantly teased. "Really, Watson...you do say the most absurd things. I would keep your husband well clear of the champagne on offer tonight, Mrs. Watson," he addressed Mary with a sniff.

The blond woman's laugh was low but heartfelt at that. "Most assuredly, Sherlock. I plan to keep him well occupied this evening, for I have been quite looking forward for the opportunity to dance...we both heartily enjoyed it last Christmas."

"I wish you well of it," he replied with an air of resignation. "I've no doubt with the Prince of Wales at the helm, this affair shall waltz well into the early hours of the morning." He paused, and regarded her for a moment. "Though...undoubtedly, it would be rude of me not to request at least one turn about the floor when you receive your dance card?"

Mary smiled, and inclined her head. "I shall look forward to it, Sherlock," she agreed, before catching the flash of melancholy that she saw flit over her auburn haired friend's face, and decided to change the subject.

"Excellent," he voiced, before straightening, and clasping his hands behind his back, a somewhat victorious smile forming on his face. "Then I claim the first quadrille...and that should ensure my presence upon the floor is seen so nothing further shall be expected of me in that regard."

As Mary nodded in reply, Helen turned away to gaze out over the river. She had always loved dancing, and though it had been regretful she could not participate at the Foundation's Christmas Party, for this event it was most disappointing. Reining in a sigh, she watched the lights glint over the water, and wondered if coming had been such a good idea after all.

"I say..." Watson mused with a shake of his head, as a rather distinguished elderly gentleman passed by with a much younger woman on his arm and walked up the carpeted gangplank to board. "We are travelling in distinguished company tonight. Wasn't that Lord Saddlestone, the former Tory Party Chairman, Holmes?"

"I believe so," Holmes agreed with a slight nod.

Watson smiled as he watched the pair mingled. "How charming...he's brought his granddaughter with him."

Mary coughed quietly. "Um, darling...that's not his granddaughter."

Holmes's laughter burst from him, as he heartily clapped Watson upon the back. "His granddaughter…Watson, my dear fellow, you do know how to raise a chap's spirits. Really, Watson, there are so many clues it fairly glows."

"Well that's all very well for you to know, Holmes," the doctor grumbled, before turning to his wife with a puzzled frown. "But how on earth did you know that?" he exclaimed.

Mary's fan fluttered over her face to hide her smile. "I read about their marriage in _The Times_, John. She's from Monaco, I believe."

"I say." Watson looked after the old man in awe. "Well done, Lord Saddlestone, eh?" he breathed, and Helen turned back just in time to see the doctor's wife give him an arch look at that. Catching it, the older man rearranged his features rapidly. "That is...of course...if he was some thirty years younger...as it is now," he stumbled, shaking his head vigorously, "it's quite inappropriate...quite inappropriate."

Glancing over at the retreating couple, Helen resisted the urge to chuckle at the older man's fumbling. "She's related to the royal family of Monaco, and brought quite a tidy dowry with her," she added, confirming Mary's statement. "It was considered a fine match... Maggie…Lady Margaret, I mean, was at the wedding a few months back."

Holmes offered her his arm a moment later. "I'm quite sure the bride and her dowry will not be long separated," he murmured quietly. "A 'mature' husband and a young wife...especially one of a Gallic disposition...are all too soon parted." He smiled at them, before taking on a theatrical mournfulness. "Nature is so _very_ cruel to young lovers."

Watson stifled his laugh into a chuckle. "Holmes, your cynicism on such matters will be your undoing...but for the moment, I'm glad to see your humour improve."

With a smile at the growing air of merriment, Helen slipped her arm around the detective's, and with a respectful nod of his head to her, Holmes led them up the gangplank to board.

The interior of the steamer was lavishly appointed and exceedingly comfortable with plenty of room for well over a hundred guests on each boat. At eight o'clock precisely, the short sharp orders of the ship's officers rang out from on board the two cruisers to the men on the shore. The gangways were removed and the lines cast off, the steamers pulling away smoothly from the embankment to begin their ninety minute journey up the great river to their verdant destination.

The distant cheers of the watching crowd rose up as the two gleaming boats slid out into the heart of the Thames, building their speed to a gracious glide over the grey waters. Around them, small hired steamers chugged alongside for short distances, crowded with leisure seekers and the curious, the small boats trumpeting their greetings from their high pitched horns, and shooting small spouts of smoke and steam into the air with the noise. The younger and less reserved of the guests aboard stood by the rails and smiled back towards the shore and small floating entourage at the enthusiastic public, one or two even inclined towards a congenial wave in response to the acclamation as they passed.

Standing near the prow with many of the guests, the quartet looked on as London rose up in all its imperial glory around them; the great buildings piled on all sides as they moved towards Westminster Bridge with dignified refinement. Handel's music, composed for royal ears, gave increased weight to the majesty of the voyage, allowing those on board the merest hint of what it might have been like to be that great queen upon her royal barge on the Nile, whose eponymous 'needle' they had just left behind. On the Surrey side of the river, the gardens of Whitehall led pleasantly on to the Westminster clock tower and so on to the Halls of Parliament.

Moving down towards Vauxhall, the boats and barges moored alongside the banks of the Thames became fewer and fewer, the tall chimneys of the industries located there taking the place of the great buildings of government, and replacing them with the candle makers and potters of Lambeth. A hint of a dingier, less affluent part of the city that the onboard guests were immediately distracted from by the emergence of a small army of waiters carrying vintage champagne and the lightest of canapés to them on silver trays that glinted in the increasingly fiery orange of the sunlight as the golden orb started to wane.

They moved smoothly past Battersea Park and Battersea Fields with its renowned duellists' ground towards Chelsea and beyond, the greenery along the banks of the river already becoming more evident. The barges and boats almost completely gone now, giving way to small leisure sail boats and skiffs along the increasingly grassy banks, meadows, and uplands, large formal buildings transforming into villas and pleasure parks.

As they journeyed through the gathering dusk, the hundreds of lights on the boat gave an ever increasing dreamy glow to the journey, the air around them gradually clearing of the effluvium caused by London life and business. Similarly, the grey filthy waters of the river, responsible for the renowned London 'pea-souper' fogs that so often affected the city, began to clear. And as they sailed on towards Oliver's Ait, where Cromwell had sat and considered his strategies centuries before, the waters of the Thames were that of an almost entirely different river, sparkling clear with the waning sun glimmering and bouncing off it, and the meadows and fields that swept down to the banks with their noble houses and cottages inset were all that could be seen as Richmond hove into view.

Finally at just past nine-thirty, the tall building of Kew Palace slid into view and the boats turned inwards toward Brentford Gate opposite the Duke of Northumberland's estate across the river towards an entire cavalry of carriages waiting to whisk the arriving guests to the centre of the mile long gardens and the Ball.

As the parade of guests began to disembark, they waited nearby their belongings in hand. Holmes, the voyage having suited him admirably, had chosen to sit on deck, and, as a consequence, was in far mellower a mood. "A most pleasant journey I must admit," he commented.

"Indeed," agreed Mary, the nervous aura returning to her face as her hand tightened on her husband's arm, feeling very much the army captain's daughter at that moment.

Patting it lightly, Watson gave her an encouraging smile. "Chin up," he said softly. "You've not one thing to fear tonight, my dearest." His eyes moved to those below them boarding the carriages and back to her meaningfully. "This is your true stratosphere, Mary Watson...where a real lady belongs."

Gazing up at him with pure adoration, her cheeks flushing, she replied, her voice low but thick with emotion, "You are too good to me sometimes, John Watson."

Taking her hand from his, he kissed it gently. "Not half as good as you deserve," he returned, before drawing himself upwards. "Now! Let us cast aside all nervousness and enjoy ourselves, agreed?" he asked, holding her hand still.

With a nod and an emotional smile, she gave his hand a squeeze. "Yes," she agreed wholeheartedly.

Satisfied, the doctor gazed at their friends and smiled, wrapping his wife's hand around his arm once more. "Shall we?" he asked them, leading the way.

Holmes moved to the gangway with his own partner for the evening on his arm, looking after his friend. "There is no doubt that Watson's aptitude for putting people at their ease in even the most strained of circumstances is without peer...it is an estimable gift."

Beside him, Helen smiled softly. "Quite so," she concurred, glancing up at him. "He definitely has a way with people...an admirable trait in anyone, though especially so in a doctor. Though you should not sell your own abilities short, Mr. Holmes."

He shook his head slowly, his smile dry. "I have seldom put anyone at their ease in my life, Miss Thurlow...not through words or manner in any event. My nature and outlook don't allow for it, as my levels of sympathy for the feelings of others are too subsumed by the more practical element of keeping them or their property safe."

"And you do not think that having someone look out for your well being is cause enough to give them ease?" she returned. "You have a rare character, Mr. Holmes. You are honest, and there are few such men that are. When you devote yourself to a cause, you follow it through and give your all to accomplish it. How can that not fail to put one, especially one whose life is in your hands, at ease?"

"Of course, there is no doubt but you are right, Miss Thurlow," he agreed without any hubris. "However, Watson's gift requires no application of practice or logic...or thought. He works from instinct and good feeling, and can achieve with a single word what I can only do by force of all my powers and energy. It is not so great a gift as a rational mind, of course, but it is a singular one all the same, and one most easily noted when it is absent," he said quietly, privileging her with another flash of his private thoughts regarding Watson's departure from Baker Street.

Giving his arm what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze, she shook her head. "You are singular men, and fine ones at that…the best and the most complementary of friends," she stated with gentle firmness. "And I am lucky to know you both."

Holmes gazed at her appreciatively, his lips quirking in a teasing fashion as he announced, "I have always deemed you a woman of rare judgement, Miss Thurlow. I see I am once again proven correct!"

* * *

Their carriage journey was short, their pathway through the exquisite gardens dazzlingly lit by hundreds of torches taking them past many glorious floral and man made features that had been the private purview of the Royal Family since George II, and which had, by the largesse of the present Queen, been handed over to the public for their ease. 

In the distance in the gathering gloom, lit for the occasion, and rising up from amongst the trees overseeing the entire area, lay one of the most striking and notorious buildings of the eighteenth century, the one hundred and sixty-three foot high Pagoda of Princess Augusta, the mother of George III, designed as were many of the most prominent attractions by the prodigious Sir William Chambers. Passing the huge Winter Gardens on their right, they could see private carriages for those guests who were coming from outside London and its environs travelling from the opposite direction and the far landlocked gates.

The great Palm House though was their beacon. Glowing with light, the great glass and wrought iron structure was one of the most prominent of its age and contained an entire acre of glass. Cruciform in shape, at three hundred and sixty-two feet in length, its centre one hundred feet wide and sixty-six feet high, and its wings fifty feet wide and thirty feet high, it was more than spacious enough to allow the plants within to grow to their full size, and on an occasion like this to form the most exotic of tea rooms for the night. The structure that night would afford the guests its unusual surrounds to explore or later sit comfortably amongst the palms, cocoanut, bamboo, tamarind, clove, and other colourful tropical plants, while taking tea, punch, claret, sandwiches, plain cakes, and later in the evening, bouillon and hot coffee.

Right at the head of the Palm House and just feet from its entrance on the large expanse of lawn, there stood another far more recent structure - the largest, most elaborate tented pavilion any of them had ever seen rose two storeys high into the air, complete with turrets and flags fluttering from every corner, and resembled in all respects a huge, gleaming white medieval castle.

"Perhaps, Watson," Holmes's sardonic nature could not resist a comment as they drew up alongside, "we should cross the river to His Grace's estate, and beg a suit of armour or two for the evening?" he said of the great Ballroom, as from within its environs came the lilting, welcoming music of a full orchestra that from its sound could not have been less than fifty musicians in number.

To their left and west of the House and the Ballroom was the lake, its ornamental waterfowl settling down for the night, unheeding of the guests as darkness fell in earnest. The water's near edge was also lined with torches, with small row and pedal boats strung with the same gilded lanterns as their large steamer cousins, and moored awaiting the pleasure of those guests who wished a turn about the water.

As they disembarked onto the carefully laid carpet leading to the Palm House and Ballroom, they could see a second large pavilion laid out on its far side, the ornate tables gleaming with crystal and silverware. That and the waiters, who were dressed in the livery of the Prince of Wales and bustling about within, marked it out as the Supper Room, which would be opened to the guests around midnight as was usual.

Stopping between the doors to Ballroom and Palm House, and allowing others behind to pass them by, the reason for the Ball's name became clear to all four guests. For the entrances to both structures were surrounded by a short, tunnelled pergola covered in climbing roses, and to the east of the Palm House, which was now in their view, lay the renowned Rose Gardens.

Thanks to a warm, early summer, the fifty-four rose beds were already in full bloom, each containing a different variety of rose, and the scent of a thousand blossoms fragranced the air all around them, lifting spirits and enchanting them. A mixture of light and shade lay over the gardens, affording the visitor both privacy or sufficient light to see by depending on which it was they wished, as torches, this time done in a Roman style, lit the winding paths towards miniature temporary Roman 'temples' placed at different spots for the evening, covered and big enough to seat three or four people. Already guests were wandering through in advance of the formal start of the Ball.

"How utterly captivating," Watson said in amazement.

"It's breathtaking," Helen agreed her grey eyes wide with awe.

Turning back and rejoining the queue of guests at the entry to the Ballroom, they handed their invitations in to be announced. The list of names currently being called was a veritable who's who of British and European society as they stepped inside the massive Pavilion. Mary accepted and Helen declined with regret the dance cards offered them, the latter's half mourning denying her the opportunity to take full advantage of the most immaculately polished and ornate parquet flooring which had been lain down, which was perfectly flat and in every way suitable for the dancing that would soon take place upon it.

At the far end of the Ballroom stood a raised railed stage, the huge black and gold crest of the Prince of Wales adorning its front with the crest of the Monarch hanging overhead. There sat the orchestra, just as magnificent as they sounded, and led by August Levant, one of the foremost conductors of the moment. High above them all, along the length of the pavilion, and strung upon the central beam were three huge crystal chandeliers, gas lit and blazing light about the room, and, continuing the motif of the ball, every six feet along the heavy white canvas wall were huge free-standing arrangements of roses, white and red in turn, in huge porcelain vases.

But while the newly constructed room itself was an amazing sight, all eyes were drawn not to the surroundings but to the somewhat portly, mid-sized gentleman of not quite fifty, complete with perfectly trimmed beard and the Order of the Garter upon his evening wear, as he stood, cigar moving from hand to mouth while greeting those selected and brought forward to meet him by his entourage. Prince Albert Edward, heir to the throne, was an imposing man, a man of intellect, but also of uncompromising and often scandalous passions. He bestrode London society like a colossus, and whither went the Prince, there went the fashion.

Unsurprisingly, given his serial taste in mistresses, few of whom went unknown to the public at least in rumour and the newest of whom was undoubtedly there that evening, the Prince of Wales was accompanied not by his wife and mother of his five children, the Princess Alexandra, but by a younger man in a much decorated naval uniform. Tall and lean with large soulful eyes, a man of not overly intelligent countenance, his eldest son, Prince Albert Victor, the Duke of Clarence and second in line to the throne, stood by his father. The Duke _was_, however, in the company of a Princess Alexandra, and the woman it was thought might become his fiancée- the pretty, regal, and haughty Princess Alexandra of Hesse - and together, these three formed the Royal party for the evening.

"Ah…Mr. Holmes," said a kind faced, grey haired, bearded, slender man in tails, approaching them as they stepped into the Ballroom proper, and were announced in turn. He moved towards the detective as he was writing his name by the quadrille in Mary's dance card, and extended his hand to the tall man. "It is good to see you again."

"Sir Henry." Holmes inclined his head respectfully, and shook his outstretched hand. "You remember my colleague, Dr. John Watson, and this is his new bride, Mrs. Mary Watson, and a friend of ours, Miss Helen Thurlow of St. Albans and Mayfair." Sir Henry greeted each in turn with hand shake or bow finishing with an elegant bow over Helen's hand. "Ladies, this is Sir Henry Ponsonby, Her Majesty's Private Secretary," Holmes finished, before turning his head away to cough lightly once or twice into his hand.

"How do you do?" Helen enquired, glancing at Holmes as the Queen's man rose from his bow over her hand.

"Very well indeed, Miss Thurlow, and all the better for meeting so lovely a young lady as yourself this fine evening," he replied, a smile pulling at his lips. "I trust you are looking forward to the Ball?"

"Most assuredly," she agreed, gracing him with a smile.

"Delighted to hear it!" he enthused. "Perhaps, ladies, if your dance card is not too filled with the pick of the young men here this evening, you might assign a slow waltz to an older more paternal gentleman?" His eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Helen inclined her head, as her expression turned to one of regret. "Under normal circumstances, Sir Henry, I would be only too glad. However, I have only just entered the second stage of mourning for my father, and am not permitted."

His eyes drifted to take in the colour of her dress. "Ah...forgive me. Of course, I should have known...I'm afraid my time touring around the Empire with Her Majesty for her Golden Jubilee celebrations made me forget some of the nuances of our mourning dress...such a beautiful grey is quite the fashionable colour in many quarters." He inclined his head politely. "My condolences on your loss," he said sincerely, accepting her nod before turning his head to Mary. "Perhaps, Mrs. Watson, you might favour me later in the evening? I confess, it would do my standing amongst the young bucks in her Majesty's employ no harm to see me gad about with a most attractive young lady, not to mention making my own wife more attentive," he added with a chuckle.

Mary smiled prettily at the compliment, before inclining her head in affirmative. "I would be honoured, sir," she replied, flashing him a small smile, and her husband a quick look to make sure that he did not mind.

The good doctor's smile showed only pleasure that so prominent a personage should compliment his wife so, and he shook his head as Sir Henry signed his name to a sedate waltz later in the evening. "I shall have to place my own name down beside my allocation with all due haste..." he said to her. "You are hardly in the door, my dear, and two of your dances are gone!"

Mary laughed a little at that, before squeezing his arm fondly. "You have only to ask, my darling, and whatever dances you wish are yours and yours alone."

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, ladies, to my true business…" Sir Henry smiled at them as he returned Mary's card. "Follow me please." Without further ado, Ponsonby turned and walked across the floor, expecting the quartet to be at his heels. Three of them, however, hesitated as it became clear where they were being led.

Offering Helen his arm, Holmes smiled vaguely at her. "Shall we?" he asked, indicating the Crown Prince with the merest of nods in his direction.

Swallowing heavily, and with a rare full on expression of anxiety, she took his arm, and glanced up at his face which was coolness personified. "Of course," she murmured.

Perhaps because of their earlier discussion on Watson's particular gifts, Holmes paused on seeing her evident nerves, his voice dropping low after a moment. "Princes are but men, Miss Thurlow...and all men are fallible. Princes especially so," he attempted.

Gazing up at him, she gave him a grateful smile and nodded just a little. "You are right, of course...it is just that...well...I suppose you must find me foolish," she murmured with a sigh.

"For being nervous at meeting the next King of England and ruler of an Empire on which the sun does not set? Oh, exceedingly foolish, Miss Thurlow," he teased, his eyes dancing, "exceedingly so."

Staring up at him for a moment, she found her mouth pulling into a smile of ease, her eyes twinkling back at his. "Well...perhaps not then," she agreed. "Though it seems you lead me false upon the boat regarding your abilities, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson is not the only one who has learned a lesson from his roommate. Thank you," she whispered.

Accepting her thanks and her compliment with a small nod, Holmes led her, with Watson and Mary in close attendance, across the floor after Henry Ponsonby to arrive at the Royal Party just as the last guests to be introduced to them departed.

"Your Highnesses..." Sir Henry addressed them, "may I introduce the renowned author Dr. John Watson of Baker Street and his wife Mrs. Mary Watson, Miss Helen Thurlow, the directress general of Balfour & Thurlow, one of our biggest import and export businesses...and of course, you know Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, removed his cigar from his mouth as Holmes and Watson bowed and the ladies with them went into deep, practiced curtsies. "Of course!" he boomed, his voice taking up a considerable portion of the room, as he extended his hand, and fixed an intense look upon the taller man. "A pleasure to meet you once more, Holmes. The crown is always grateful for your aid in her affairs."

"Your Royal Highness is too kind," Holmes replied evenly, taking his hand and shaking it briefly but firmly, his gaze unwavering. "To serve the state in which one lives is to merely repay it for harbouring you. The crown owes me nothing…though if gratitude is to be handed out, it must go in equal measure to my colleague here. Dr. Watson has been my partner through almost all...his part cannot go unsung."

Prince Edward's pale piercing eyes turned towards the doctor who stood stock still with barely a muscle moving. "Yes, Dr. Watson..." the Prince addressed him with a nod. "Your writings are required reading for almost everyone I know. I confess to reading a few on my journeys…capital tales, well told. Both your aid and your talent are much appreciated by the Empire."

Watson's eyes widened noticeably, and he bowed stiffly, trying to keep the smile from his face, as he chose his words carefully and slowly. "Thank you, sir...my talent is poor, certainly not that of a Kipling or a Dickens...but I feel Holmes's work needs to be broadcast to the public so that they may at least know that a force for good is at large in a rather dark world."

Holmes turned to look at him with an expression of surprise and pleasure, as the Prince nodded and slapped Watson lightly on the upper arm. "Good man!" he approved. "The people need their spirits bucked...far too much hideousness in the world. That's partially what tonight is all about! Bringing some beauty into the world and doing some charitable work to boot." His eyes drifted to the woman by Watson's side, and a definite glint hit the Prince's eye. "And speaking of beauty..." he continued, directing a smile at her, "your wife, Doctor, is an adornment any man might be proud to have by his side."

Turning his head to the two Royals by his side, but keeping his eye on Mary, he gestured towards her. "Wouldn't you say, Eddy? Alix?" he asked of his son and the princess. "Exquisite."

"Most definitely, Your Highness," the Princess responded, her German accent clipped and cool. "Very charming."

Mary lowered her eyes bashfully. "Thank you, Your Highness," she replied.

"And the other lady too..." Prince Albert Victor commented, his eyes falling on Helen, reaching up to touch the waxed ends of his moustache. "Mr. Holmes, your party is studded with gems."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Helen returned, with a gracious incline of her head, though her fingers tightened on her escort's arm as if she was drawing strength from his presence alone.

His father's eyes moved to the auburn haired woman and the glint remained undimmed as he chuckled. "My son is quite correct, Mr. Holmes...where on earth are you uncovering such rare prizes? If this is to be the reward of detection...perhaps I should give up the throne to take up the practice." He looked Helen over once more. "The Directress General of Balfour and Thurlow, eh?" He popped his cigar back in his mouth, and puffed on it, taking it out again a moment later. "A remarkable position for a woman…so obviously brains to go with such a pretty face. How find you the world of high finance, Miss Thurlow?"

"Quite fascinating, Your Royal Highness," she replied, her words measured, while taking care to keep her voice calm whilst flashing him a polite smile. "There is always something new to puzzle out and learn."

"Puzzle out, eh?" the Prince repeated. "Yes, I dare say it is a mystery of sorts...not one I ever cared to learn much about myself. I must confess. I prefer the world of the Arts..." He paused a moment. "Thurlow...Thurlow...yours is that Arts Foundation, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, Your Highness," she replied with another smile and incline of her head.

"Capital! Capital!" he exclaimed. "I'm particularly fond of music and the theatre. If we get the chance, you and I shall talk next time we meet about the work your Foundation does." He smiled charmingly down at her. "Ponsonby, make a note of it, will you?"

"Of course, Your Highness," the retainer agreed instantly, while making a subtle gesture to Holmes to withdraw.

"Your Royal Highness." Holmes bowed respectfully, and was followed in suit by Watson and the ladies before they all drew back, not stopping to talk until they were all on the far side of the room.

"I trust you are all past your bouts of tension?" Holmes smiled to himself, as he watched the Royal Party move towards the top of the room, their audience over for now.

Mary released the nervous chuckle that had been keenly restrained the entire audience, while Helen relaxed the death grip on the detective's arm that she had unknowingly been giving him.

"He makes quite the impression," Watson noted, drawing up chairs for both ladies.

"And now he wishes to discuss the Foundation with me," Helen breathed, as she lowered herself into her chair, a rather worried look on her face, as Mary patted her arm. "I shall either lose my wits or say something entirely wrong."

"One needs ones wits around any Prince, Miss Thurlow," Holmes said, peering around the rapidly filling ballroom, some three hundred guests having already arrived as the time neared for the official start. "But around this particular Prince, a pretty lady needs them most of all. Punch, ladies?" he enquired looking at them, switching track completely with his final word.

"Yes, thank you," Mary replied, as Helen nodded a bit distractedly, until her friend squeezed her arm, causing the young woman to look up and blink.

"Oh, yes please. Thank you," she answered, giving her escort a guilty smile.

"You're welcome." he replied. "Watson? Would you be so good?" Holmes gestured abstractedly towards the Tea Room, and went back to keenly viewing the crowd.

His friend blinked and stared at him, before opening his mouth to reply, but instead, sighed, and nodded. "Of course, Holmes. I shall return directly." Bowing to both ladies, he moved off quickly. Mary gave her husband's friend a bemused look, as the older man disappeared into the other room.

"I would not worry yourself unduly, Miss Thurlow," Holmes said with a slight frown, his eyes still absent from her. "I doubt His Highness will have the opportunity to speak to you again tonight." The young woman nodded silently, taking some hope in that though her nervous look remained. "From Sir Henry's instructions, I would say it is more likely you will receive an invitation to Kensington Palace at some stage," he continued blithely.

"Oh my," she breathed, her eyes widening, as she bit her lip.

Mary's eyebrow arched up at Holmes's back, as she patted her friend's arm soothingly. "I am sure you will do just fine, and perhaps, Mr. Grufsted will go with you?"

Helen nodded quickly. "Yes...I am sure he would...and he is more knowledgeable about some aspects of the Foundation than I am."

"I'm sure he will..." Holmes agreed, his brow creasing further as he watched something in the far corner, his voice increasingly distracted. "Providing the invitation extends to him, of course."

"May I not just have him escort me?" Helen enquired quickly, as Mary shot the man a rather pointed look.

The detective shook his head slowly, his voice, like his attention, drifting further away. "To a Royal appointment without an express invitation?" he mumbled.

The young woman looked on the verge of a panic attack, as he turned on his heel to face them and bowed. "Excuse me, ladies...I have just seen someone I must speak to," he apologised, before turning to Mary. "I shall return in time for our quadrille, you may be assured." And with a quick smile, he turned and disappeared into the gathering crowd.

Less than twenty seconds later, Watson struggled back past the last surge of the crowd with the punch, reaching them both with a relieved smile. "Here we are!" He handed the glasses with the chilled fruit juice to them, before glancing around. "Where's Holmes?"

Mary watched her husband's friend retreat into the distance, before turning back to the older man with a rare look of supreme annoyance. "Apparently, he has found someone he must talk to, after worrying poor Helen here half to death!" she said with exasperation. "Honestly, I do not know what possesses the man sometimes."

Her husband blinked. "He what? What on earth did he say?"

"He got her all worked up about meeting the Prince of Wales at Kensington Palace...and every time I nearly got her calmed down, he found a loophole. Honestly, John...what was he thinking!" she huffed, as Helen downed her punch rapidly.

Watson looked after his friend and back at Helen, before exhaling slowly. "No doubt," he explained, "he was merely trying to be realistic and rational about what one might expect. Perhaps he feels that the Prince might..." he hesitated, coughing slightly, "given his...well...his reputation, perhaps Holmes was intimating that you should decline the invitation? His methods do always leave a little bit to be desired."

"No, John," his wife replied, before Helen could open her mouth. "He did nothing of the sort. He was just once more relaying the facts..." She sighed and shook her head, realising she was getting a bit defensive for her friend. "I'm sorry, darling...but after he just left..."

"But Holmes never just relays facts without a point, he always..." Watson started, and deflated somewhat under his wife's annoyance for her friend. "I'm sorry if he upset you, Miss Thurlow...and I don't understand his taking off like that. I shall speak to him," he resolved, turned to look for the missing member of their party.

"No, Doctor!" the woman in questioned gasped, rising to her feet. "Mary, I know you mean well…honestly, I do...but...I am not offended, truly...I promise," she continued, her words in a customary rush. "I should not be so silly as to react this way, and Mr. Holmes is free to conduct himself as he wishes this evening, after all it is not as if we were...attached...in any way." She gave them a quick, and what she hoped was a reassuring, smile.

Mary gave her a very dubious look, as the younger woman took her hands and gave them a squeeze. "Helen..."

Any intended words were drowned out by a short fanfare from the orchestra and the introduction of Prince Edward in order for him to formally declare the Ball open and for him to take the lead in the Grand March which heralded the start of all such formal occasions. Taking a rather regretful leave of Helen, Watson led Mary out onto the floor with all the other dancing couples, and the intricate promenade began.

Their anxiety for their friend was somewhat allayed as the second dance was the quadrille, and as promised, Holmes returned in time to take up his allotted spot with Mary, inviting her out onto the rapidly filling floor with no idea in his head that she was in anyway aggrieved with him on behalf of her friend. The regal, almost courtly, dance was again joined by the Royal party...deemed as it was most suitable for their dignity.

Helen watched from the sidelines, smiling over at Mary whenever she looked her way, though as the gap between them widened, the young woman's eyes began to rest with increasing frequency on her dance partner, her stomach clenching in knots almost in time with her hands on her fan until she was forced to look away. It was not on Mary's behalf that she did so...but the sight of him dancing with such obvious skill, and the knowledge that not only could she not participate...but that she should not be reacting so to him...made her heart begin to hurt just a little.

Soon after, Martin Yeates and his wife Lavinia made themselves known to the group, and after mutual thanks were bestowed on both sides, the group descended into conversation, during which some light refreshments were taken in the Palm House as well as an exploration of the great greenhouse. On their return, the Ball was in full swing, and the Yeateses and Watsons paired off, while Holmes and Helen spoke with various people, including the Duchess of Monmouth who had attended on behalf of the family.

The Duchess, for her part, apprehended Helen and led her away to meet one or two of her 'friends,' young men with fine expectations; the intensely forthright older woman merrily intent on marrying the mortified heiress off before the night was through. After the young woman finally managed to escape, she found to her dismay that once again her escort for the evening was nowhere to be seen, and was relieved when the Yeateses and Watsons returned to spare her from becoming a solitary wallflower. But, with barely a glimpse of Holmes amidst waltzes and gavottes, polkas, and _minuet de coeurs_...the hours passed speedily by for all save Helen, stuck in her limbo, until midnight approached, and following the collection of cheques for the charities to benefit from the night, the announcement of the opening of the supper room was made.

The orchestra continued, as did the dancers, though a great many slipped away to dine. Helen watched as her friends again twirled around the dance floor, oblivious to all but each other and the music. Smiling at the occasional hello by a passing guest and indulging in minor conversation with others was now beginning to take a toll on the woman's disposition. The evening had gone smoothly enough, but her inability to fully participate, mingled with the constant feeling of being a virtual third wheel to her married friends and not much other than the briefest of interests to the other, was wearing on the last of her frazzled nerves.

With a sigh, she turned and slipped into the crowd, fully intending to head for the supper room, but on passing through the door, her feet changed direction and destination as though with a will of their own. The air, warm and still thick with the perfume of the thousands of roses, washed over her as she stepped away from the Palm House and pavilions, causing her to close her eyes and relax in the scented breeze, and with a tiny smile, she moved away from the crowds and headed off into the night.

Keeping away from the better lit areas where a few people were sitting in the small temple like structures, Helen made her way towards the far edge of the garden where the torches were fewer and a line of trees began. The music still wafted across on the floral scented air...the beginnings of a stately Austrian waltz fitting in perfectly with the soft sway of the trees in the lightest of breezes.

With a sigh, and just rather glad to be alone, she rested against the trunk of a tree, and gazed up into the night sky, wondering for the umpteenth time why she had agreed to come to this event in the first place when she couldn't even do the one thing that would make it tolerable to her? She did not need recognition nor thanks for her role in the hunt mystery...neither did she need to get out and mingle with other members of high society, for in truth, as she had always stated, such events were a necessary evil to her. What she really would prefer, at that moment, was to be lying in the gardens at her home, her hair down, unbound by the countless pins currently in it, listening to the sounds of the English countryside at night.

Why had she come? Because _he_ had asked her to. That was inevitable truth...he had called, and she had come.

Closing her eyes with a sigh, she was hastened further to a conclusion about her feelings for the detective from Baker Street...one she desperately both did and did not want to think on, let alone acknowledge. It was impossible, intolerable, and completely laughable on so many levels, and yet here she was at a ball she had no real need or want to be at...and _all_ because he had sent her a telegram asking her to go. And the most laughable crux of it was that even in his telegram, it sounded as though he had no real desire to be there either! Her mind had reconciled her acceptance of the invitation with the notion that at least they would have each other to keep company with all night. It had never even occurred to her that he would barely spend any time with her and disappear for half the night!

She should be furious with him. Yet, she was not.

With still closed eyes, she pushed herself away from the tree, her body unconsciously moving to the music, even as her mind attempted to inform her once again that any ideas it might entertain about Mr. Sherlock Holmes were completely mad, unreasonable, and bordering on confinable. That to continue, to hope, or even react in such a manner with him was foolhardy, and would only put her on a path that led to inevitable heartache.

As she swayed, using the movement to soothe her turmoil, the sound of the match that subsequently struck against the rough cover of the box was surprisingly loud, and the glow in the dark that came from further into the copse of trees by which she stood cast a brief ruddy glow over the face of her watcher.

"You keep excellent time, Miss Thurlow," Holmes commented on her movements, which had increased to waltz steps in small circles. "Though your neck is a little arched," he added, as he moved out of the trees towards her, cigarette smoke curling around him.

The poor woman jumped, her eyes wide with fright, as she took a step back with a hand on her chest in a vain attempt to stop her heart from beating a mile a minute, and realising who the spectator actually was did not help her palpitations one bit. "Mr. Holmes!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking the opportunity to do what I am unable to do inside," he answered, holding up his cigarette, and lowering it slowly, as he moved somewhat closer to her, "and relaxing after an unexpected evening at work. I'm afraid you must accept my apologies, Miss Thurlow, if my attendance upon you was spotty at best...I had been perfectly well set for an evening as your escort, when I received this." He held up a square of paper. "Subtly delivered to me via the handshake of Sir Henry Ponsonby." Her eyes widened at the paper, remembering his small coughing fit, when he had undoubtedly glanced at the contents in his hand. "I'm afraid the little exchange you heard between the Prince and I regarding service to the crown was not related to my past services, but this newest one," he explained with a sigh.

Her curiosity getting the better of even her shattered nerves, she glanced over at the paper before returning her gaze to him. "I see...well then, it is perfectly understandable. I trust all is now well?" she hedged.

He shook his head, drawing on his cigarette. "Just beginning, I fancy, though my unsuspecting target has escaped my watchful eye to return home early. Still...no matter...we have safely ascertained his own target was not to be found here, a convenient summer ague," he murmured half to himself and half to her before his attention moved fully back to her. "And you? How come you to be out unescorted?" he asked, no hint of reproach at her social indiscretion in his voice.

She arched an eyebrow at him, half in response and half in amusement. "Mary and the doctor are dancing, and the Duchess with her stream of eligible young men was eyeing me once more, I wished to take in some air, and as you were evidently on a case…" she answered, letting him lead himself to his own conclusion.

"Quite right." he agreed. "There is no rational reason why you should remain shackled to a ballroom where you are not only deprived of dance...but my company." A smile lit upon his face his egotistical remark, as he tossed his cigarette away. "The latter has been remedied...and I see you were halfway towards the former yourself," he noted of her private dance. "I see your desire to dance this evening burns quite strongly in you."

Her face turned bright pink at the reminder of having been seen dancing alone by any man, least of all him, and she turned her eyes to the ground in embarrassment, her retort to his amusingly conceited remark lost. "I have always enjoyed music, Mr. Holmes...dancing is just another form of expression," she replied, steeling herself, before gazing back up at him. "However, it is one I am currently not permitted."

"Yes," he agreed, that thoughtful expression that pre-empted the expounding of a theory or statement flooding his face. "Though…it seems odd and illogical to me sometimes to remain in mourning for such a highly defined period for those lost to us. To grieve, I can understand…that is natural...a part of life, it can pass in a week or two or never abate...but 'mourning,' that is a measurement of appropriateness set by societal convention. Respectful certainly, but too often it only prolongs misery." He leaned against the tree she had been previously at. "Do not mistake me, Miss Thurlow, I do not flout convention lightly...but it seems to me that you have dutifully fulfilled your obligation to your father...and I have my strong doubts, considering how long you were without him before and how much he wished your happiness, that he would wish you to deprive yourself of that which would make you happy. To whit..." he pronounced, reaching his conclusion, "you should dance, Miss Thurlow."

She stared at him rather dumbfounded, before blinking slowly, and shaking her head. "Well...that is very kind of you to say, Mr. Holmes...and very likely true in respects to my father's wishes...however, that does not change what is or can be. And I do think it would not be taken well, if I were to go back to the ballroom, and suddenly asked for a dance card," she pointed out, not sure whether to laugh or scold him to toying with her so.

He smiled at her answer, before replying, "I did not mean to risk your reputation...merely to service your desires. Dance..." He glanced around them at the shadowed and torch lit garden, "here."

Her eyes widened. "Dance...here..." she repeated, not sure she was hearing him correctly.

Nodding, his hand slipped the paper into his pocket. "It is, you must admit, the most rational of solutions. If you are not permitted to dance at a social event...then dance while removed from it," he rationalised, his smile softening a little. "You do wish to dance, do you not, Miss Thurlow?" he enquired, taking a step closer so as to better see her expression.

She stared up at him, as he moved towards her, her mind feeling as though it was trudging along with all the speed of being under the pull of molasses. "Well...yes...but I believe, I'd look a trifle odd just dancing here by myself," she replied, trying to retain her dignity when all she wanted was for him to sweep her up in his arms.

"Yes," he agreed. "No doubt, it would not be seemly for you to dance here in front of me like some Music Hall girl or Eastern harem attendant. Which leads us two inescapable conclusions...either I must leave…or you must acquiesce to dance with me," he said enquiringly, as he opened his hand and offered it to her slowly. "What say you, Miss Thurlow? Will you allow me to make some slight amends for my horrendous record as an escort this evening, and honour me with this dance?"

"Dance...with me?" she repeated, her mind reeling heavily at that, though her gloved hand had already slipped into his without any hesitation at all. "I...I would...be honoured," she stammered out with obvious confusion. "But, I thought you did not like dancing…"

"It is not dancing I dislike...quite the contrary, I find the discipline rewarding for body and mind. As I believe I may have mentioned before, what I do not care for is being cornered into that I do not wish to do or have no inclination towards." His fingers closed around her gloved hand, his other hand slowly slipping to her waist, curling around it, drawing her closer. "And that," he said, gazing down at her, "hardly applies in this situation."

Swallowing lightly, she rested her hand on his shoulder, her body tingling with heat at his touch. "Then...shall we?" she replied, her words soft and barely above a whisper.

With a slow nod, he turned his attention to the music, and after a brief moment to catch the rhythm, he began to move with her to the slow, easy Strauss waltz emanating from the pavilion, deftly leading her over the small patch of ground, the grass beneath their feet offering no resistance as he turned her smoothly and elegantly.

Helen closed her eyes, as she glided in perfect complement - where he led, she followed, when he turned, she did as well. And as she lost herself in that moment, in mind, body, heart, and soul...she knew with perfect clarity that she had lost that inner battle waging within her these past few months...that it had been hopeless before she'd even begun. And it was a confirmation that was both amazingly wonderful and utterly wretched.

Holmes watched her eyes close as she lost herself to the music and dance, not overly surprised at the ability she so clearly had, for her grace had always been physical as well as mental, and his smile grew a little at the rapturous expression on her face, a part of him pleased at his encouraging her to take these first steps back into a world of normalcy and colour. And he took heart that she might one day look back on this moment, and realise her new life of comfort and happiness had begun in earnest the night she had waltzed in Kew Gardens with an odd friend of hers, a famed but eccentric man who daringly coaxed her from her mourning early, knowing she could always be forgiven for it due to humouring his odd quirks and ways…a tale to amuse her husband and children one day.

Drawing her in a little closer, he twirled her in a quick rapid spin, his nimble footwork responded to easily by hers, and as the music ended, his smile was still in place, pleased at how well they had danced together. "You are an excellent dancer, Miss Thurlow," he complimented her, gazing down at her still closed eyes.

Realising they had stopped, her eyes fluttered open and stared wondrously into his, before some part of her gave her a quick if solid kick back into reality, and with a slight flush inclined her head in reply. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. But a dancer is only as good as her partner," she returned.

"Then we make a most excellent paring indeed, Miss Thurlow," he replied instantaneously and in absolute seriousness. "A shame we could not show our fellow guests. So let us do consider something public that is not frowned upon…would you care to take supper with me?" he asked, releasing her and offering her his arm.

A soft smile graced her features, as she gazed up at him. "I believe I would, Mr. Holmes," she replied, taking his arm, though she was no longer the least bit hungry…not that it mattered, for she would have agreed to walk barefoot over the Himalayas if he had suggested it at that moment. For, for good or ill, Helen Thurlow was a woman in love, and such women do not do what is rational, right, or follow common sense...even if every fibre of their beings tells them that it is the worst thing they could have done.

* * *

**_Authors' Notes: Thank you all again for the wonderful reviews! It really warms our hearts to see that so many are enjoying the tale and are taking such interest in it:D Okay...lots of questions (actually a few people saying the same ones...heh)._**

_**1. Helen's gloves: Yes, they were off. Why? Because our girl has some impulsive tendencies, and though that was a bit of a breach of ettiquette...she occasionally follows her impulses. Bad girl! **_

_**2. The psychological paper, aka...the sex crimes: Perhaps this was mentioned a wee bit too soon...however, this was done to highlight how Holmes simply sees Helen not as a woman but as another Watson, or perhaps a Watson in training.**_

_**3. The cramming of words: Yes, I think this is something on fanfiction's end, as our copies in Word are not affected nor does the other archive we post to seem to be. Sorry about that, I did try to go in and fix it, but couldn't find the errors.**_

_**4. The musical terms: Our serious bad on the Hayden...Haydn has now been corrected and we honestly apologise to Papa! I'll fix any other musical terms as I come across them again. However, Rondeau is correct, and Lfire found this in her research. :D**_

_**5. Helen's thought on Oysters: Yes...this was again, my bad, and yes, was meant to be funny...and was only not saying it, so I thought we could get away with a canon reference without causing too much of a mis-timeline. Heh...**_

_**Right...that should be it...and I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, we are working on eleven, however, with my wedding in just over a week, and my co-author going on holiday till July 3rd...it may not be feasible. If we can't, please check in over at the dispatch box over on livejournal. Again thank you all for your reads and kind and thoughtful reviews. Hugs to all! Aeryn(of aerynfire)**_


	11. Beneath the Surface

_Chapter Eleven: Beneath the Surface_

_12th June, 1889_

London was alive with noise and life. The long midsummer's eve had brought the people out in force, Trafalgar Square fair bursting at the seams as the brass band there played a litany of crowd pleasing favourites, and bringing an almost carnival atmosphere to proceedings. Courting couples, flirting singles, and entire families lazed in the warmth of the golden June evening, and the huge brass lions at the base of Nelson's Pillar were swarming with little boys, each determined to climb higher than the other as they were egged on by their female counterparts, only to be brought to heel by parents, governesses, or nannies.

With flower sellers, vendors, and newsboys pandering to the crowds, their cries mingling with the brisk Radetzky March the band was playing, the great metropolis had seldom seemed so happy and content. A state of affairs that was mirrored in the passengers who passed them by unseen in the luxurious rented, black landau, which was whisking them through the Square towards the Strand and a double celebration.

Breaking his gaze from the world outside, Watson turned away from the window and back into the privacy of their enclosed carriage, giving his wife's hand a squeeze, before unwrapping his fingers from hers to slide the same hand around her shoulder, and draw her closer to him. "Just the right sort of evening for it," he murmured, his voice warm and contented. "Couldn't have asked for a better one."

Mary's bright blue eyes gazed up into her husband's, a wide smile permanently etched on her face. "It is a beautiful evening...and I must admit to have been looking forward to this all day," she replied, her voice low but filled with joy.

"It's highly doubtful our dinner companions will be in as good a mood as we...but I hope Holmes remains in as cheerful a mood as he was when I left him. He was exceedingly pleased with himself for some reason. He would not say, but I have a feeling it has something to do with that business of the case he received at the Rose Ball. The business that you didn't believe existed at the time, I might add!" he teased.

With a sigh and shake of her head, his wife gave him a rueful look. "Yes, well...business or no, Helen took his absence that night much better than I would have," she returned. "I fear she did not have as enjoyable a time as we hoped, my darling."

He took in a deep lungful of summer London air, and exhaled it slowly, thinking back on it. "Oh, I don't know," he ventured. "She seemed very happy when we saw them at supper, and they spent a good deal of time together from that point on. I saw Holmes amusing her with some details about our fellow guests, and going home she seemed positively radiant under those lanterns on the riverboat journey back." He gave a decisive and firm nod as he came to his conclusion. "No, overall I do believe she had a good time."

The blond woman frowned just a little. "Perhaps...I just...well...I suppose it's not important," she stated with another shake of her head, before returning her gaze to the splendour outside.

Looking down at her, Watson inhaled again, squeezing her shoulders. "What is it?" he inquired with a sigh of almost amused resignation. "Out with it...remember our agreement - all worries shared."

She gave him a soft smile, and leaned into him just a little. "It seems silly...I just could have sworn that she looked...sad...no...resigned at times. Sometimes, it was just a feeling. However, I know that sounds foolish."

"Resigned?" His brow furrowed a little as the carriage moved down the Strand, and closed in on their destination. "About what?"

She gave him a light shrug, while patting his leg gently. "I don't know...it's just a feeling. Don't pay it any heed...after all, you did say she looked well later."

"Perhaps...but those feminine instincts that even Holmes puts so much stock in are worryingly refined in you, Mary Watson," he sniffed. "If you feel there is something wrong, you should speak with her, and put your mind at ease. I won't have you worrying over anything," he stated, his firm tone returning.

She regarded him with silent affection for a moment, before finally nodding in ascent. "I will speak to her...if I get the same feeling tonight. And I am fine, John. There is no need to worry yourself over me."

"Ah..." he exclaimed with a chuckle, his moustache twitching slightly, as the carriage slowed on their arrival. "But that is my job! After all what else is a husband good for?"

She arched a slender brow just a little, before looking away to hide the ever widening smile on her face. "Very well...I can most certainly not argue with that point," she agreed with a most amused tone.

Bursting into laughter, Watson took his hat from the far seat, before kissing her cheek quickly. "You really are quite wickedly adorable, Mrs. Watson." With a shake of his head, and composing himself, he opened the carriage door to step out onto the pavement, straightening his eveningwear before reaching up one gloved hand to help his wife down to his side.

Stepping onto the pavement beside him, she smiled happily up into his face, before turning her head to glance around the outside of Simpson's. "Are we early?" she enquired.

Taking out his watch, he checked the time and nodded. "A little...but that's of no great import. We can ensure the wine is well chilled for our companions." His brow creased a little as he looked up at the golden orb of the sun hanging over the city still. "It's a deucedly warm evening." Extending his arm to her, he bowed a little. "Shall we begin your birthday celebrations, madam?" he asked with a smile.

Mary's fan was already at work, as she slipped her hand into his. "That sounds wonderful, my good sir," she replied.

Simpson's Grand Divan Tavern in the Strand at some sixty-one years of age was not only one of his and Holmes's more favoured restaurants, but one of the most celebrated in the city, and just the place Watson wished to wine and dine his wife and his friends as the second part of his gift to Mary - the first being the delicate silver and amber bracelet that adorned his wife's gloved wrist as they entered the famed establishment.

On looking up from his lectern, the Head Waiter smiled, and inclined his head on recognising the customer. "Dr. Watson, delightful to see you again so soon, sir."

"Good evening, Johnson," Watson greeted him, and indicated Mary. "My wife, Mrs. Watson."

Johnson bowed lightly. "Charmed, Madam...and if it is not too forward of me to offer? My best wishes on this celebratory occasion."

"Thank you," Mary replied with a soft smile. "That is most kind and thoughtful of you to say."

"I realise we are a little early, Johnson, but..." Watson began only to be silenced by the gentle raising of the waiter's white gloved hand.

"Your table is quite ready, Doctor," he assured him. "Party of four, I believe?"

"That's correct. Holmes and the young lady that will make up the fourth will be arriving shortly I'm sure," Watson informed him, as the Head Waiter began to lead them into the unique surroundings of Simpson's.

Decorated in classically British décor, The Grand Divan room with its subduedly lit crystal chandeliers and French-polished dark oak panelled walls was so named for the many booths that surrounded the room. Each one lined with luxurious divans on either side of the table for their customers to sit and relax on. While there were more feminine dining rooms located upstairs, it was The Grand Divan that was clearly favoured by the highest of statesman and the wealthiest of businessman...perhaps because the club-like surroundings lent a relaxed air to proceedings that made dining a more comfortable experience.

"I have taken the liberty," Johnson said, leading them to a far booth, "of placing you near a window, Doctor, taking into account the warmth of the evening and the ladies' comfort. And I have your wine already chilling, of course."

"Excellent, Johnson." Watson smiled at him, as the man ushered them onto the plush satin covered divan on one side of the booth. "You think of everything! It's no wonder you are Holmes's favourite Maitre..." He stopped, and corrected himself as Johnson arched an eyebrow, "I mean Head Waiter, of course."

"You and Mr. Holmes are too kind, sir," Johnson replied before snapping his fingers, calling another waiter over and taking two leather bound binders from him, one black and one burgundy. "The Bill of Fare for this evening, madam," he continued, handing the burgundy one to Mary. "And for you, Doctor. Would you care for an aperitif while you wait?" he enquired of them, after handing the physician the black binder.

Watson looked to his wife enquiringly. "My dear? A celebratory drink?"

Mary's face was one of quiet excitement, as she nodded. "Yes, thank you," she agreed. "That would be lovely."

Watson thought on it, before nodding. "Bring out the champagne you've chilled for us, Johnson, and put another bottle of the same on ice straight away. Let us start as we mean to go on, eh?" he announced, tapping the table to emphasise his point.

Johnson inclined his head with a smile. "Certainly, sir," he agreed, before moving quickly away.

Turning back to his wife, Watson gazed at her in satisfaction. "No reason we can't start the party by ourselves."

With a bell like laugh, she nodded in agreement. "Indeed not!" she enthused, taking his hand, as her eyes sparkled up into his. "We have so much to celebrate."

Raising her gloved hand to his lips, he kissed it gently in agreement.

A moment later, they were interrupted by the waiter arriving with the bottle of champagne wrapped in a linen cloth and accompanying bucket full of ice. Setting up with quiet precision on the spacious table, and with a nod of the doctor's head, he popped the cork and poured the couple both a glass. Making sure it was to their satisfaction, he turned to go, only to notice another waiter leading a rather attractive auburn haired woman towards the table.

Turning back to the toasting husband and wife, he inclined his head and coughed lightly into his fist. "Pardon my interruption, sir...madam, but I do believe another member of your party has arrived."

Following the waiter's gaze, Mary nodded in confirmation. "Yes, thank you," she replied. "Helen!" she called up to her affectionately, as the woman reached the table. "You look wonderful this evening."

With a slight bow, the waiters both withdrew, as Watson rose to his feet. "Helen," he greeted her, taking her hand to guide her into the far side of the booth with a smile, his wife's increasingly close friendship making the use of her first name more and more natural and acceptable. "Thank you for coming. And Mary is quite right, that gown is most becoming."

The young woman glanced down at her beaded mauve evening dress that though tasteful and slightly conservative in nature also followed and fit snugly over her generous curves, and gave just enough of a hint of skin to en trance the eye. With a grateful smile, Helen inclined her head to her host. "Thank you, Doc...I mean, John," she replied with an apologetic smile, upon catching the arch of his eyebrow at the slip of his title, as she brushed a stray curl that had escaped her carefully coiffed hair and fallen over her forehead. "You look quite dashing as well...and Mary, you look positively radiant," she enthused.

Watson smiled down at his wife before flicking his dress suit tails behind him, as he resumed his seat. "Yes she does, doesn't she?" he agreed with a chuckle.

The waiter returned with another burgundy folder which he opened and politely handed to Helen before placing another champagne flute on the table. "Champagne, miss?" he enquired.

Lowering herself carefully into her seat, the young woman smiled up at the waiter and nodded. "Yes, thank you," she replied, before opening her menu and glancing at the contents, while the waiter looked at Watson inquisitively, as he filled her glass.

"There is one more yet to join us," the doctor responded to the unasked question. "We'll peruse the Bill of Fare for now."

With a nod, the waiter moved briskly away, as Mary opened her menu, and began to glance over the fare. "My, they have some very tasty sounding dishes here," she breathed. "I'm quite at a loss how I will decide on just one."

"Once done, refrain...whatever you do," Watson advised, opening his own black folder which denoted the gentleman's Bill of Fare, "from referring to it as the menu when you order."

Helen looked up and blinked. "Why?" she enquired with a rather mystified expression.

Watson gazed at both women, a hint of the storyteller coming into his eye as leaned forward, his voice suitably lowered. "Well…not long before Mr. Simpson, after whom this establishment is named, passed on, he sold the tavern to the current owner Mr. Edmund Cathie, a great connoisseur of wines and cigars," he explained. "Well...Mr. Cathie employed the inestimable British cook Thomas Davey, who was renowned as an absolute demon to work with in the kitchen. You'll note I say cook and not chef? That's because Davey insisted that _everything_ in the restaurant, bar alcohol, be British." He tapped the folder he held. "The Maitre D' became the Head Waiter, and he even had the word 'menu' removed and replaced with 'Bill of Fare'... you'll not get any response if you refer to them in any other way." His chuckle was rueful. "It's a foible, but one that went down very well with a great many of the more patriotic clients and still does."

"Ah!" the young woman breathed, nodding her head in acceptance. "Very well, I shall most certainly keep that in mind...and Mary, you are quite correct...the meals here look absolutely scrumptious!"

"Good English fare should always have a place in one's heart," said Holmes in response, startling them all slightly from where he leaned on the wall of the booth by Watson, a slight smile on his face as he looked down at them. His high collar, blue grey cravat, dove grey waistcoat, and pin stripe trousers with his black frock coat indicated that he had only just now returned from some formal business without time to change into dinner clothes.

Mary, starting to make a comment to her friend about Holmes's artful ways, watched as Helen's gaze shot up from her menu and took in their newly arrived companion, the way she swallowed slowly, and how her eyes widened just a little, before with a cough, she pulled them away. Her brow furrowed just a little, as she turned her eyes to Holmes and noticed no such eager reactions from him to the presence or appearance of her friend, the worrying feeling in her stomach returning just a little at the exchange. With an inward sigh, she tried to let it go for at least the evening, and smiled up at her husband's dearest friend. "Good evening, Sherlock," she greeted him. "I am so pleased you were able to come."

"Madam, how could I in good conscience have missed such a prominent occasion?" he replied with a smile, moving to the tableside proper and bowing to her a little. "However, I must offer my apologies for my attire. I'm afraid after your husband left me this morning, I had occasion to call upon the Foreign Office. I am only now returning, and so alas...you see me as I am." Turning his attention to the other woman at the table, Holmes bowed. "Good evening, Miss Thurlow, may I?" he enquired, indicating the place beside her on the large divan.

Blinking slightly, and flashing him a friendly smile, the auburn haired woman shifted further down the divan, so as to give him room to sit, as Mary replied, "Oh no, Sherlock, your dress is just fine. Indeed your suit is quite stylish, would you not say, Helen?" Turning her eyes, she caught her friend's cheeks flush, before she too nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. You look quite dapper this evening," she agreed.

Signalling to the waiter for another glass with a quick gesture of his hand, Holmes turned his eyes to her, his brow creasing slightly. "And you a little flushed. Are you quite well, Miss Thurlow?" he asked solicitously.

Composing herself, she gave him a quick smile and a shake of her head. "Oh, I am quite well, Mr. Holmes," she answered with a touch of an embarrassed tone. "I'm afraid that I spent some time outside this morning in my private garden, and may have gotten a touch of sun."

"You must watch for sunstroke," Watson advised with concern. "It can quite take one unawares. This weather is glorious, but we do flock outside when in fact our English skin and constitutions aren't made for such things. I see more bad burn cases in my surgery from exposure to the sun then I do from fire," he added with a shake of his head.

"I will, John," Helen assured him in the most conciliatory of tones, her smile rueful. "However, after the rains of last week, I rather jumped at the opportunity to do some weeding...and got rather caught up so that I did not notice the sun till my nose was quite pink."

"I'd venture more rose," Holmes opined pithily, taking the Bill of Fare from the waiter, before his glass was filled from the rapidly emptying bottle of Moet et Chandon. Raising it, the detective looked over the rim at the reason for their being there. "Your good health, Mary," he toasted her on her birthday, and was immediately joined by Watson and Helen who echoed him wholeheartedly.

With a pleased smile and inclination of her head to all, she took a sip from her glass. "Thank you all," she replied. "It is good to spend one's special day with the people one cares the most about."

"Yes..." Holmes put down his glass and moved to examine the food on offer that evening. "Especially when the day is _so special_," he added, glancing up at the couple who had both turned their eyes to him at his tone. "Forgive me. Do go on." And with a wave of his hand, he returned his eyes to the choice of fish course.

Mary gazed at him curiously for a moment, before taking a sip again from her glass. Her husband's index finger tapped the stem of his champagne flute for a moment, as he weighed his friend's choice of words regarding his wife's birthday carefully. "All right, Holmes..." he said sitting back. "Let's have it."

Holmes glanced up with some surprise. "Your pardon, Watson?"

The doctor's index finger now pointed at him accusingly. "You know, don't you?"

"Know?" Holmes response was all innocence. "Know what, my dear fellow?"

Helen gazed at the interplay between the two men with barely masked confusion. "Know?" she queried.

Watson sighed and looked to his wife. "I'm sorry, my dear...he's obviously worked it out. I'm afraid I must have had more tells then I thought when I went to Baker Street this morning."

With an amused expression, she shook her head and gave him a smile as she patted his hand. "It's quite all right, dearest. I suppose we could not keep it hidden for long...though saying something so soon is not wise."

Slapping the table lightly at being thwarted, her husband shook his head, and glared good naturedly at his friend. "I thought I had you in the dark on this one."

The smile that had been tugging on the corner of Holmes's lips, started to grow, while across the table, Helen slowly blinked, as realisation dawned on her face. "Mary!" she squeaked. "You're...you're...oh goodness! This is wonderful!"

The blond woman's cheeks flushed with pleasure, as she nodded, her expression shy but school girlish all at once. "I know!" she breathed. "We only found out yesterday! I wanted to write you straight away...but it really_ isn't_ wise to say something so soon."

Watson's hand closed around his wife's and squeezed it gently. "Perhaps not...but despite our attempts to convince ourselves otherwise, it's doubtful either of us could have kept it from our master detective here." He frowned over at his friend, and huffed lightly, "Just how did you figure it out?"

"From the cut of your trousers, the stain on your shirt, and the trace of paint upon your fingernail," Holmes replied instantly, sitting back against the divan. "All of which were secondary to the barely veiled undercurrent of enthusiasm you met me with this morning, which even by your excitable standards, Watson, was quite extraordinary."

Helen dipped her head to hide her grin, for she had a clear image in her mind's eye on how enthusiastic the older man must have appeared, and Mary, upon catching her friend's expression, quickly took another sip of champagne to hide her own ever increasing smile.

Watson coughed and shifted in his seat, his brow creasing. "I wasn't unduly enthusiastic. I'm sure I wasn't!" he protested.

"Just as you say, Watson," Holmes agreed solemnly, the slight quirk of his lips undoing the good of it.

Clearing his throat rapidly and repeatedly, Watson huffed, his fingers thrumming the table in front of him. "All right then, what about the rest of these so called clues?"

"The stain upon your collar...was only vaguely perceptible as I sat across from you this morning, but perceptible all the same. Pollen," he elaborated. "Indicating you had bought flowers. You had, I knew, yesterday purchased your wife a large bouquet to take home with you for the eve of her birthday...two dozen red roses, I believe. But the shirt you wore was, quite naturally, fresh this morning and the colour of the pollen not consistent with that breed of rose. No..." He paused for a moment, and with a shake of his head, continued, "A different class...paler...pink or white...indicating that a sudden and celebratory event of notable weight had occurred between your arriving home last night and early this morning when the florists opened before you left for Baker Street. The colour of the flower indicated that the news was of a somewhat less...passionate...more tender emotion than that of your previous floral purchase."

Watson flushed a little, but held his gaze. "Surely that was not enough?"

"Quite so," his friend agreed. "There was the stain upon your left index nail...now long gone. Paint...emerald green. Precisely the shade that Mr. Dawes, the bookshop keeper and our near neighbour, is having his shop front redone in."

Both women arched eyebrows at that. "Bookshop?" Mary queried, cocking her head slightly in askance, as her husband sighed, knowing what was coming next all too well.

Holmes's smile widened. "Mr. Dawes has, just this past while, given that particular side of his window frontage over to the display of books for children." His eyes glinted mischievously. "Seeing as Watson's taste in literature is well beyond that of an early reader or two, he has no young relatives, nor was he planning a trip to visit you in St. Albans, Miss Thurlow, as well as being mindful that your brothers had already experienced a birthday last April...and yet he paused long enough to be so distracted as to forget about the paint, it was safe to say the interest was keen but still somewhat distant."

Pausing for almost dramatic effect, he placed his glass back on the table. "The final piece of the puzzle was the rather distinctively shaped box in the front right trouser pocket the good Doctor Watson." He brought his two index fingers together in demonstration. "Twin tubes, hard, from the sound of the drumming of his fingers against them on occasion, and long. The tip of which I perceived as being painted grey with a flash of a gold band about it." He gazed about the table to see if either of the ladies would care to hazard a guess.

Helen's face lit up, as both she and Mary exclaimed, "Cigars!"

"Havana Specials..." Holmes nodded with a smile. "Imported at great expense...and not to be purchased lightly. And two of them...with Watson being the generous soul that he is…undoubtedly meant to be shared. Eh, Watson?" His eyes danced a little, as the man in question deflated entirely, and, reached into his trouser pocket, before placing the twin grey wooden tubes with the distinctive gold band bearing the cigar's name on it on the table in front of them.

"It was supposed to be another surprise and a treat for after dinner when we'd told you!" Watson lamented, shaking his head despairingly. "But trying to keep secrets from you is like Mrs. Hudson trying to ensure you eat regularly...a complete waste of time."

Mary found herself laughing at that, and a moment later was joined in by her friend, though she made a valiant effort not to at first. "Oh dear," Helen voiced, attempting to pull herself back together on seeing Watson's face. "Well, if it is any consolation, John...I was very surprised."

Reaching over and picking up the cigar, Holmes broke the seal and popped open the top of the case, drawing one of the thick, fragrant, hand rolled tubes of tobacco out, rolling it between his fingers and passing it under his nose, inhaling deeply, and rather mischievously. "Excellent choice, Watson...excellent."

Shaking his head slowly at his friend, Watson's frown slowly melted, and he began to chuckle. "Holmes, you will be the death of me," he complained good naturedly with a sigh, upon taking his wife's hand again, who squeezed it in reply, her eyes twinkling up into his.

"Oh I hardly think so, Watson," Holmes replied, popping his cigar into his breast pocket. "I'm sure you will outstrip us all and most certainly me! You will be bouncing grandchildren on your knee, and inspiring a legion of doctors to follow in your footsteps. I guarantee it."

Helen's brow furrowed ever so slightly at his pronouncement, before the smile returned to her face, as she watched the happy parents-to-be gazing at each other.

The detective's gaze, like the woman next to him, could not help but take in the happy couple that would soon become a family. He was, of course, pleased for them. Parenthood was the natural culmination of marriage...but it did not raise his tolerance levels for such devotional behaviour in the slightest, and, reaching out for the bottle of champagne, he lifted it clear of the ice bucket and turned to Helen. "More champagne, Miss Thurlow?" he enquired.

Pouring some more into her glass on her quiet say so, Holmes concentrated on the refilling of their both their glasses under the quietly intense gaze of his companion, who, hiding expertly both the part of her in deep inner turmoil and that part floating in contentment, turned in rapt attention to him as he began to discuss with her the finer points of eating at Simpson's, classical dining...and the myriad of poisons each dish was all too well suited to disguise.

* * *

Following one of Simpson's famous carved roast dinners and sumptuous, if heavy, desserts, the four restrained revellers agreed that upon such an evening it would be a waste indeed if advantage was not taken of the warm weather, and following a short ramble from the Strand, they emerged upon the Embankment, walking towards Westminster by the Thames.

Just as in Trafalgar Square, the riverside was alive with life, the denizens of London strolling, chatting, and relaxing in the balmy summer night. Street performers played to small gatherings of people, and vendors selling ices, drinks, and snacks were plentiful.

"It seems," said Holmes, as they began their walk in earnest, Mary and her husband linking arms and falling in behind Holmes and Helen, "that this place seems to be a focal point in our lives these days."

"Oh?" Watson queried, glancing up from his wife to his friend ahead of him. "How so?"

"Well, the departure for the Rose Ball for one..." the detective noted, before smiling quietly to himself, "and the final resolution of our little foundry case for another, Watson."

The doctor's eyes widened considerably at that. "Holmes! You found it!" he gasped, to which, in front of him, the tall man stopped and spun to face his friend, the glee evident in his eyes. "Good man! But why did you not say so earlier?" Watson cried with a laugh.

"What and take the sheen from your wife's news?" Holmes shook his head. "Hardly. It deserved pride of place."

Helen watched the pair closely with an expression of deep puzzlement. "Found?" she enquired as politely as she could, glancing over at her friend, who looked rather confused about what they were discussing as well until light finally dawned in her eyes.

With a short laugh, the detective spun to Helen in turn. "A most unique sneak thief, Miss Thurlow...and a most dangerous one." He leaned towards her for a moment, the enjoyment in his eyes at his victory clear to see, before gesturing for her to walk along beside him. "One...that is closely connected with these quarters," he explained.

"The day...the very day in fact, that Watson and I received our invitations for the Rose Ball, we had undertaken a case that arose out of something I had noted in the paper that morning. To most eyes, it was an innocuous story...barely worth the mention...a simple case of a robbery of some steel plate from an iron foundry on the borders of Wales and England near Liverpool."

Behind him, Watson threw a knowing smile at his wife even as he addressed his friend. "To _most_ eyes," he agreed with a chuckle. "But not to yours, eh, Holmes?"

Ignoring the slight teasing of his friend, Holmes chose to take him at his word. "Precisely as you say, Watson..." he returned, glancing at Helen. "As always, I do not say these things out of bravado, merely fact."

"Of course," the young woman agreed, her eyes and attention fixed raptly on him, masking her feelings for him behind an expression of real curiosity and interest in what was to be revealed.

With a nod to her, he proceeded, "As I said, an innocuous enough robbery. The theft in this case, however, occurred, upon closer inspection, in a specialist foundry, Messrs Lowe & Stone. One that contained a safe holding an amount of gold bullion and other precious metals used for specific purposes and parts. What peaked my interest in the case was firstly - the fact that that safe was untouched and only steel plating taken, and secondly - had anyone being paying as close attention as I, they would have known that this was the fifth such petty theft in some nine months from foundries around the British Isles.

"Of even further intrigue was that Messrs Lowe & Stone was a foundry that provided armour and parts to the Royal Naval Dockyards in Liverpool, where most of Her Majesty's battleships are built. A quick check of my references revealed that, though it was not widely reported in the other cases, each of the other foundries so stricken also undertook some kind of specific naval work, and in each case some marine component or other was taken. Also the fact that though these other foundries had all been located near docksides, this was the first inland one to be penetrated. So clearly," he said to her, "this occurrence was something more than just happenstance.

"While no one had ever been caught for the earlier thefts, this most recent one came to a conclusion of sorts that had left the local constabulary baffled. It was under those unusual circumstances that Watson and I travelled to Wales that evening, and followed the trail of the thieves and their cartload of steel plating. A burdensome haul to be sure, and yet despite this load, they had taken flight hell for leather cross country to where their trail came to an end in a large meadow right beside the River Rhyl, across the border in Wales. There, the police discovered the cart burned to a cinder in a seeming effort to destroy all clues as to the identity of the perpetrators. The horses, later found also to be stolen, were peacefully grazing, but of the thieves or their purloined cargo there was no sign." He turned his head to her, before continuing, "Now considering the meadow bordered the deep and free flowing Rhyl...what would be your conclusion as to their disappearance, Miss Thurlow?"

The young woman's brow furrowed a little as she considered the question. She knew she was being tested, but found it thrilling to not only be the focus of his attention, but well thought of enough for him to be interested in her deductions. "They had confederates that met them at the river? Perhaps they loaded their ill gotten gains onto a boat of some sort and sailed away to make their escape?" she hedged.

"Precisely what one would be inclined to think," he agreed. "However…neither the river watchman downstream near the estuary where the Rhyl runs into the Irish Sea or those dining out along the banks of the river upstream at the scenic _Dragon Spur Inn_ had at any point during that time seen any kind of boat upon the waters."

"True..." Watson added from behind, "and even with lights off, there was no way a boat could slip by either point unseen."

Helen's frown deepened at that. "Did they perhaps cross the river, then? Make their way on land?"

"A secondary explanation, of course," Holmes replied. "But the time taken to cross back and forth with such a load in a small boat, coupled with a cursory examination of the far bank which showed no recent disturbance, ruled that out. And yet, there was no doubt that it was from this point that they had departed, as both the meadow and the dirt road track outside of it by the river bank, though relatively firm from lack of rain, clearly showed only one set of cart tracks entered, and...from the depth of impression left when it did so…it had already been shorn of its heavy load, simple observation and a grasp of mathematics making it obvious that a cart laden with steel would have left tracks far more pronounced than it did. It is doubtful, unless the men were superhuman, that they could have carried their load across country without secondary transportation."

Pouncing on that, the young woman breathed, "Already shorn of its load? Do you mean they had disposed of it elsewhere?"

"Precisely that. The cargo had already been taken care of...and considering there was no other recent tracks...we were again left again with only one viable mode of transportation of such a load. Namely the river.

"So we had an obvious mode of escape...and yet no obvious method to avail of it," he summarised. "Our trail apparently came to an end there, as it had for the police." Pausing again, he raised a finger to punctuate his next remark. "But one step taken by the thieves before their disappearance intrigued me, going beyond usual methods as is it did." He glanced at her once more to see if she had followed his reasoning.

Helen's expression was one of deep concentration, her mind clearly ticking through the facts he had so far provided, and nibbling on her lip, she considered the data, before turning back to him with glittering eyes. "They burned the cart! Why on earth would they do _that_?"

"Brava, Miss Thurlow. _Why_, indeed? An extraordinary measure to douse a cart in kerosene and set it ablaze like that, especially as it would undoubtedly attract attention. Their confidence in doing so and _still_ departing unseen must have been supreme. Ordinary thieves would merely have secured their belongings and departed. _These_ men were intent on leaving no trace of themselves behind...men therefore with something significant to hide. And such men more often than not in their eagerness to erase all such evidence of there existence forget themselves and make mistakes," he pronounced, swinging his cane somewhat jauntily. "A simple examination of the meadow proved me correct in that surmise."

"Simple!" Watson exclaimed incredulously. "Hardly that, Holmes!" The doctor turned his attention to his wife. "You'll remember I spoke of this to you, my dear. Holmes had the constabulary and every available hand flood the field with virtually every portable light in the vicinity in the middle of the night!" he explained, shaking his head at the recollection. "Every light of every sort was drafted in until the place virtually glowed...and there...in the middle of this meadow, crawling around, his nose in the grass and the remains of a bonfire for three hours till almost daybreak, was Holmes...I've never seen anything quite like it."

The detective affected a tolerant air over his friend's continued amazement at his patently necessary methods. "Needs must, Watson...and it proved a fruitful search in the end, did it not? For we found what we needed - the extra data to fuel our deductive journey."

"The most grandiose description of a cigarette end I believe I have yet heard," the doctor snorted lightly.

Turning a gimlet eye upon his jocular friend, Holmes received a mild smile in return. "I'm sorry, Holmes," Watson said, his eyes twinkling, as his arm tightened about his wife's, "but I am in far too good a mood to be the admiring colleague this evening."

Helen found herself chuckling a little at the by-play between the two men. "And what did the cigarette tell you, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired. "Was it a specific type?"

Removing his reproving gaze from his medical friend, Holmes turned back to her, his demeanour mellowing a little. "Exactly so," he told her. "From the moment of its discovery, there was not a shred of doubt in my mind that the cigarette end in question was that of a popular American brand, Richmond Straight Cut No.1, which is scarce if ever found on these shores, and making one of perpetrators either newly returned from the United States or a native of that country.

"It's most probable that the fire was set from the casual flick of the cigarette towards the fuel soaked cart, the flame being more than enough to start the conflagration, but, seemingly unknown to the smoker, the cigarette itself bounced from the cart and smouldered down to its end completely removed from the bonfire it had started. But while the cigarette itself was noteworthy, it was its companion clue that, when put together with the first, was the key. For on their way from the meadow, having taken such care, one of the men trod on a softer piece of ground by the water trough for the cattle near the field's gate.

"The imprint of the boot step bore the faint but unmistakeable letters…B and H…in upper and lowercase respectively, and in a lettering that was singularly curved in style." Moving slightly closer to her, his mood and tone became almost instructional. "Few languages in Europe use Bh at the start of words. The ancient language of Gaelic, however, is one of them; unsullied as it was by the invading Roman Latin alphabet in ancient times. That fact, along with the curved lettering so fondly used in Ireland, tells me that another of our men was of that land." His brow furrowed, as he concluded, "The mix of Irish and American is, of course, given recent violent events in this country, a notable one and led me, along with the other unusual circumstances of this case - the previous unsolved robberies, the lack of interest in gold, the eagerness to leave no trace, and their strange disappearance - to the inexorable conclusion that this theft was the work of the Fenians."

"The Fenians!" Helen repeated, clearly taken aback, and with a quick look at Mary and John, reeled at the discovery of the involvement of the brotherhood of Irish and American revolutionaries bent on securing Irish freedom from English rule. Working from within Ireland and America, and utterly mistrustful of the veracity of the English government who had long withheld Irish sovereignty, they had long since put away any thoughts of parliamentary means to secure Irish freedom. Behind several failed uprisings in Ireland a few years previous, they had terrorised London with a series of violent attacks on police stations and other official targets, causing several deaths.

Their threat had been muted after an apparent plot to kill the Queen had been foiled in her jubilee year, and a number of them had been rounded up in that sweep. But with a strong base in the United States and American money in their coffers, it was not a threat that had remotely disappeared, as was now all too obvious.

"With that," Holmes interrupted her thoughts, and bringing her attention back to him, added, "it was a very simple step to deducing both the reason for their activities and the method of their escape with their weighty haul." A small smile formed on his lips. "Indeed, the method of their escape is not hard to_ fathom_ at all."

On hearing this from behind them, Watson gave a half groan half laugh. "My dear chap! Awfully bad wordplay…I thought that was supposed to be my particular vice?" Mary's merry laugh rang out behind them, as Helen arched an eyebrow up at the detective for his pun.

"In your case, Watson, it is," Holmes cast back over his shoulder mischievously. "This particular badinage, however, despite your theatrical groans to the contrary, was quite witty...the clue, quite evident in the comment. After all, if logic tells you there must be a boat by which they made their escape…and yet you cannot see the boat…what is the most obvious explanation?"

The young woman appeared obviously confused at his remarks. "A boat that cannot be seen? Well, there is no such thing as an invisible boat...and impossible too..." She bit her lip and frowned. "If there is nothing to be seen on the water..._Fathom._ Delve? Below? She turned to the detective, her eyes wide. " A...what is the word...submersival?"

"Submersible," he corrected, his smile widening at his obvious enjoyment of her quick wittedness in focusing on a form of marine vehicle that was still quite rare, and hardly the first thing to leap to someone's consciousness. "Excellent, Miss Thurlow."

The young woman positively glowed under his praise. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes...I have heard of such craft...though I'm afraid that's all I've done." Glancing behind her, she chuckled a little at Mary's enquiring look. "I am in the import and export business...we do a lot of shipping, and sometimes have government contracts for parts from abroad."

Her advisor's look was impressed as he smiled at her. "It seems the business world has expanded your knowledge in many unexpected areas! Perhaps you should start advising me!"

She chuckled, and shook her head. "Oh no, John! If I had also not been reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea to the boys as of late as well...I may not have even taken much notice of such contracts. Andrew is fascinated with Captain Nemo."

"Nemo?" Holmes enquired, momentarily distracted from his recounting his own tale to show his lack of awareness of the fictional tales of others. "An unusual name." Shaking his head and pushing it to one side, he carried on, "In any event, the discovery of the nationalities of our thieves, the absence of a more conventional boat, and the depth of the bed of river Rhyl led me to a specific suspicion, and on our return to the Hotel we were staying in, I wired Whitehall, and from there the Foreign Office and our Embassy in the United States was contacted. With a little help from American State Department Officials, I received confirmation of that which I had supposed to be the case. That a privately built and owned submersible with the pointed name of _The Fenian Ram_, long since in dry dock in New York due to financial and expertise problems, had somehow slipped unseen by Federal agents into action …its problems obviously resolved.

"Evidently, _The Ram _now sailed our waters, and was proving an excellent method of providing unseen voyaging for its crew in their villainous activities. The first of which was obviously to gather more spare parts for their ship, seeing they were now a long way from the safer shores of America. Now that we knew the who and the how of what had occurred, what remained was for us to turn our attentions to why they had brought this craft into action…and specifically where it now was.

"Unable to do more from Wales, and with matters now in the hands of the alerted Government, Watson and I returned to London where we resumed our other cases; however, I continued, when I could, to study naval charts and shipping manifests sent to me, in an effort to discover just how the submersible had made its way across the Atlantic Ocean - for there is no way it could have travelled here on its own, especially given it is such a small craft. At just over thirty feet long, its strength is speed and guile, not endurance. So finding how it was brought here and where the most likely port of safe harbour for this submarine weapon, given their need for storage and facilities, was the next and most urgent step. Even as I studied, consulted, and pondered its location…it was the _why _it was here and not the _where_ that first made itself known to me, chiefly thanks to our attendance at the Rose Ball."

Helen, who had been listening carefully, her mind marvelling a little at the unfolding intricacy of the plot, shot a glance at her walking companion at the mention of the event that had not only been the one of the most awkward nights of her life, but also one of the sweetest...and saddest. Holmes had been her escort for the evening, but had disappeared for most of the night much to her consternation...though he had explained later he had been commissioned to a case by the Crown via a note, subtly passed to him by the Queen's secretary. Her eyes immediately connected again with his. "The note?" she ventured, her voice hesitant if tinged with a small amount of excitement at the idea of furthering his esteem of her.

"Note?" Watson voice called from behind. "What note?"

Her eyes widened and immediately her body language contracted in embarrassment, not aware he had not even told his partner of the contents. "Oh...um..." she stammered.

Holmes calmed her fears of having misspoke herself with the slightest touch on her arm, before he glanced back at his friend. "You will recall I told you I was engaged by the Palace to watch a certain individual present at the Ball?" He paused as Watson nodded in reply. "The method of that engagement was via a note surreptitiously passed to me by Sir Henry Ponsonby, a detail I disclosed to Miss Thurlow when we..." he hesitated at describing the exact scene, and glanced over at her, "spoke alone later." He had not told anyone of their private waltz, and looking back at her, caught her turning her gaze away from him quickly. Watching her closely, his own eyes became suddenly penetrative, as he frowned a little. "She was owed a comprehensive explanation as to my rather elusive presence that night."

Drawing his shoulders back, he turned his eyes from her. "The man I was engaged to watch was named within that note...and while I am not at liberty to reveal his identity, I soon discovered that the man himself was innocent of the suspicions levelled at him. In fact, my investigations and sources revealed that rather than the traitor he was suspected to be, this man had in fact placed himself in extreme mortal peril to uphold his own beliefs in finding a peaceful resolution, going so far undercover to bring men of violence to justice that evidently even many of those in the highest corridors of power knew little of it...including the Palace.

"My discovery of this occurred just shortly before Watson and I made haste to Herefordshire and Boscombe Valley to investigate the singular mystery there...but while gone, I left a few irons heating in the fire at Whitehall and sundry other contacts both here and abroad regarding both our unsung hero who I shall call Mr. X and _The Ram_. On our return to London after the resolution regarding the death of Mr. Charles McCarthy, I found the irons glowing red hot. Word from America reached me that it was now clear that Mr. X's role in betraying those he had unmasked and helped to capture had finally been discovered...and those remaining were seeking revenge against not only him, but those who had helped to plan it all.

"I soon pieced together the list of who, along with Mr. X, those targets for vengeance might be...and where it was they would be vulnerable to attack by such a craft. The latter, in fact, became blindingly obvious." Stopping by the wall, he raised his cane and to her surprise, slipped an arm around Helen's shoulders, expertly guiding her to look in a specific direction near Westminster Bridge, where a large cruiser bedecked in red, white, and blue was moored near the Houses of Parliament. "This weekend sees certain high level discussions take place aboard _The Wellington_ as it cruises the Thames to Oxford, and the boarding party bears an uncanny resemblance to the list of names in my possession.

"I now knew the who, why, and when...all that still remained to me was the _where_. The exact location of the weapon and those who intended to use it. Thankfully, another of my slowly heating irons glowed brightly enough to cast a light over this too." His arm closed about her shoulders again, as Holmes turned Helen once more, before leaning down slightly, his attention caught up in his retelling of the final leg of his story.

"There…" he gestured, gazing towards a great black steamer moored down the river at the far quay, "_The Maybelle_. A merchant ship carrying tea and cotton from North America and European goods on its return…and the ship, on this voyage, which took _The Ram_ with her across the ocean hidden in her hold."

Helen's surprise was nothing compared to what she was feeling now. His breath drifting over her ear, and his body so close to hers, she thought her composure would surely desert her, and she would faint dead away. She wanted to respond to him, to say anything, but her throat felt so incredibly dry, that she was sure if she were to open her mouth nothing but a croak would emerge. She could barely hear, never mind understand what he was saying, due to her heart pounding so forcefully in her ears that it drowned out everything else. As he spoke, his breath tickled her cheek, causing her skin to spark and come to life. It was as if it was suddenly every nerve in her body had become active and so sensitive that she could feel everything. She desired nothing more that to stay there surrounded by arms forever, and yet wanted to flee with every ounce of her being.

His focus utterly on his work, Holmes continued, his eyes alive with a hawkish gleam as they perused the steamer, "A ship that on this voyage, thanks to the secretive payment of copious amounts of American dollars, had never been entered into the arrivals log by the Harbour Master in Liverpool, where _The Ram_ had been unloaded in the dead of night and without intruding customs officials."

He straightened somewhat, and released her with a smile. "A man with a hard drinking habit should never turn to bribery. Alcohol loosens the lips...and his sudden, unexplained influx of cash and his unerring propensity to spend it lavishly on alcohol, not just for himself but his drinking mates as well, always causes ripples which, with the right channels in place, invariably ripple back to people he would rather they did not. An error of judgement I am pleased to say the Harbour Master will have plenty of time to repent upon."

Helen was frankly more than a touch relieved when he moved a little away. Swallowing heavily, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself, though her belly felt as though a swarm of butterflies had taken residence, and her breath was so quickened she thought she might lose control of it all together. Opening her eyes and fixing them on the object of his tale, she managed a slow nod of agreement.

"With _The_ _Maybelle_ marked as having arrived via Portsmouth with no mention of her stop in Liverpool, we had a direct link to _The Ram_ and its whereabouts...and dressed as a longshoreman complete with a fair Cork accent, I was able to watch the goings on around the dockside, talk with the crew, and observe their movements exceedingly well. What I found was hard to believe, for the sheer audacity quite took my breath away, but there, late last night right under the docks of London herself, I discovered an underwater tunnel had been fashioned over some time. A flooded tunnel which led up in the foundations of an Inn called _The Foggy Dew_, and there the submersible with all its ill gotten gains was moored.

"Once I had found it, thanks to the comings and goings from the inn above, I found myself trapped there for a good portion of the night until I could slip away unseen. Having done so, I returned home, washed, breakfasted, talked with Watson, and on his departure, dressed thusly," he swept a hand over himself, indicating his morning suit, "and headed for the Home Office to inform them of the craft's location…and once I had them galvanised, we went straight to raid the place. All save two of the crew of miscreants were taken. One dived into the river, and another, a man I discovered during my few days in his company as a docker to be of some perspicacity and invention, spotted me, and had the wit to recognise me and took flight early…a foolish mistake on my part to be so observed." His voice drifted into a quiet murmur, before pronouncing, "Men such as he can prove troublesome." And again he fell into serious thought for a moment before resuming his more victorious air.

"In any event, _The Ram_ and most of her crew are in custody. The former will be shipped back to America so the authorities there can take further action, and the latter will stand trial for conspiracy here. The matter concluded itself just a short time before I was due to arrive for dinner," he finished, before looking over towards Mary with an amused glint in his eyes. "And now you know, madam, why I arrived at your birthday dinner in less than appropriate attire."

Mary's expression was also one of affectionate admiration, as she had listened with great interest to his story. "Indeed...but do not concern yourself, Sherlock. Your attire was not unseemly at all...and after what you have just said, I am amazed you were able to make it this evening," she assured him, shaking her head in awe.

His smile was serene. "I must now publicly admit to being a little fatigued, having been awake for some forty hours or so, but quite apart from your birthday, and considering what I learned from your husband's exuberant state this morning over your pleasant condition, this evening and its revelations were not ones I wished to miss."

"I was not exuberant!" Watson protested at his friends continued description of him.

Holmes chuckled for a moment, the quiet laugh dying off as he noticed the demeanour of the fourth member of their party. "Miss Thurlow? You are exceedingly quiet," he observed of her.

Turning back to the others and taking great care to put a smile on her face, she gave them all an apologetic look. "I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. I was just pondering your remarkable story. It was quite fascinating," she answered with complete sincerity. "You lead quite an exciting life."

"I suppose so," he replied after a moment, his forehead creasing slightly as he regarded her. "Though it is a mere byproduct of the exertion of my intellect. You understand that of course, do you not, Miss Thurlow?" he stated quietly. "That it is not physical or emotional exhilaration I seek...but intellectual."

Her face betrayed nothing of the ache in her heart at those words, as she nodded. "Of course, Mr. Holmes," she agreed, her voice as light as she could force it to be. "I only meant that though your work is exciting to those who hear it, it must have been an enjoyable exercise of your talents to you, and kept your mind contentedly active."

Mary too watched her friend with a carefully disguised evaluating eye. She had not failed to notice Helen's reactions when her husband's partner had stepped close to her, nor was she blind to the careful control the younger woman was using now. With an inward sigh, she made a mental note to discuss this with her husband later. For it seemed that their little endeavours concerning their two friends had produced some fruit; however, instead of bringing the both of them some joy and contentment, it had appeared to do nothing at all for one, and to set the other on the road to certain heartbreak.

Nodding slowly, Holmes gradually drew his eyes from Helen and back to the Watsons. "My congratulations to you both once again," he addressed them. "Yours is by far the most capital news of the day, and it is my sincere wish that the rest of your evening is full of enjoyment, Mary, but I fear the aforementioned fatigue is beginning to settle a little heavier upon me now, no doubt exacerbated by the heat of the day and the excellent if heavy food. I shall take my leave of you all to return to Baker Street, if you have no objections."

"None at all, Holmes," Watson assured his friend with a wide smile. "You've had a long day and it was good of you to stay so long." His eyes turned to their young friend. "We shall see Helen to her hotel and make our own way home soon after."

Releasing her husband's arm, Mary stepped forward, and offered the detective her hand, giving him a soft smile. "Thank you for coming, Sherlock. It was good to see you again."

Taking it, he doffed his hat and bowed over her hand with an appreciative smile. "And you...my thanks again for your kind invitation, and I trust it will not be long till we meet again." As she drew her hand back, he turned to the woman who had been his companion most of the evening, his expression remaining unchanged. "Miss Thurlow, I express the same trust."

She smiled in reply, and held out her hand in farewell. "I am sure we shall see each other soon," she replied, eager for it, though with full comprehension that she was being drawn to him like a moth to a flame it knew was dangerous, but was unable to resist.

Taking her hand, he studiously bowed over it and again doffed his hat. "I shall look forward to it. Your presence and companionship are always agreeable. A goodnight, and a safe trip back to St. Albans." Releasing her hand, he smiled once more at her, and with a nod to Watson, strolled off down the path towards Westminster Bridge, his shadowed figure disappearing into the crowd of people ahead of them.

* * *

**Authors' Notes: Thank you all once again for all your thoughtful reads and reviews! As well as the wedding well-wishes! It went smoothly, and was a beautiful service. But enough about me…on with the fic!**

**It thrills us both that everyone liked the dancing scene! And as for Helen…you shall all just have to see what happens next there, but judging by this chapter, it doesn't look good, does it…but alas, we cannot tell… But we are glad our message came across – Love is not fun, nor is it always a good and joyous thing.**

**For clarity and accuracy's sake we would like to point out that _The Fenian Ram_ portrayed herein was in fact a real submarine, privately built and owned in the U.S at that time, but never used due to the 'problems' mentioned in this chapter. Though some licence has been taken with real events involving the Fenian Brotherhood at that time in London. **

**While this chapter and the case laid out here was conceived and written in advance of the recent and terrible London bombings, we would like to take the opportunity to dedicate this short tale of thwarting such acts to the victims of the bombings and to the city of London. Our hearts go out to all involved and affected by this terrible and heinous occurrence. Aeryn (of aerynfire)**


	12. The Very Best of Intentions

_Chapter Twelve: The Very Best of Intentions_

_6th July, 1889_

Removing his hat, Holmes gave a tight smile of thanks to the irritable Lord Jeffrey Coombes, and donned the armband he had just been given by the straw boater-ed peer of the realm, and which would be his pass for the day. Tucking his own boater bearing the colours of his alma mater under his arm, he fell into a long, easy stride behind the older, portlier man, as Lord Coombes, po-faced, moustaches quivering slightly from annoyance at having to deal with a man like Holmes on this of all days, led him towards the legendary Steward's Enclosure at Henley.

As he walked along the verdant river bank, taking the time to straighten his old school tie, brush a speck of lint from his blazer and confirm that his cream flannel trousers and matching canvas shoes were grass stain free, Holmes afforded himself a moment's leave from his thoughts about the reason he was here to reflect on both his journey and the great occasion that was Henley Royal Regatta, now in full swing about him.

With thousands down from London to attend this grand event, the streets of the great Metropolis he had left hurriedly that Saturday morning were appreciably quieter than they normally would have been. The race days of Henley regatta were short, just two full days in three, and the populace flocked to them accordingly, leaving London's parks, libraries, and museums emptied, the thoroughfares denuded of people and traffic, and some shops closing due to the fall off in activity.

It was, like Ascot or the Derby, one of the great days of English sporting life with the added attraction of fun upon the river.

The journey down, last minute as it had been, had not been a comfortable one, the unavailability of a first or second class ticket meaning he had to stand in the packed carriages for the entire hour and a half ride from Paddington. But given the enormous crowd at the station and the demand for _any_ ticket of _any _sort, he had been fortunate enough to even catch a train, and the lack of comfort had more than been made up for by the colour of the ride.

Eager rowing aficionados and those merely keen on an outing to remember mixed and exchanged news, banter, and even food and drink, entertaining each other with song, while banners and bunting meant for the races temporarily decorated the interior of the carriages. The demand for transportation meant that there was a great deal of mixing of people who would normally be kept apart from each other due to varying degrees of affluence. Here guardsmen, seamstresses, bankers, butchers, milliners, brokers, college undergraduates, and school boys from Eton, Harrow, Rugby and The Priory, their hat bands like his designating the club, school, or college to which they belonged, all mixed in a great mass of anticipation and liveliness. The men dressed as dapperly as he, while the women were delightful in white muslin, gloves, shoes, and parasols - the journey's discomfort put aside in an eagerness to make the experience an enjoyable one.

The day was a fine one; the sky predominantly blue with the sun only occasionally shadowed by a scudding cloud, and the good weather had shown the passing English landscape to its best advantage. Meadows and farmed fields lined by neat hedgerows, watched over by farmhouses and small villages, stood out in the July sunshine, while the railway banks on either side of the tracks were carpeted with blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies, adding to the sense of a very British occasion.

As they travelled on and the Thames had slipped once more into view, the sheer scale of the pilgrimage became apparent to all, as the country clear waters of the river teemed with a flotilla of boats of every kind and size, transporting thousands more down the slower but far fresher and more comfortable river route to Henley on Thames, a hub which saw three counties - Buckinghamshire, Oxfordshire, and Berkshire in close convergence along the river.

With richly farmed lands on one side and densely wooded banks on the other, luxurious houseboats lined the riverbanks closer in to the village and race course itself, the wealthy and fortunate often maintaining these colourful and large structures almost for this event and this event alone, each one designed to accommodate and to entertain.

For Henley, unlike virtually every other prominent sporting event, was as much about being _seen _as it was about the sport being staged, the outcomes of the events of far less import then the event itself, and as such, it was prominently attended by the great, the good, and the rampantly social climbing. The latter, generally wealthy and eager to rub shoulders with the class of the former and most of all, longing to enter the Steward's Enclosure -_ the_ most desired and rarefied of social stratospheres in sporting social life.

While it sounded plebeian enough, the Steward's Enclosure was in fact the very essence of patrician life. The stewards were, for the most part, no longer the local aldermen they had been when this rowing meeting, designed to boost tourism to the town of Henley, had begun fifty years ago this very year. Now almost every steward was a man of import or renown, mostly aristocracy or parliamentarians, and each prestigious stewarding position was vied for with great keenness as they became available.

This year with the fiftieth Anniversary of the event being celebrated, entrance to the upper echelons of the event and the ultimate enclosure was especially in demand. The first patron of the regatta had been the Queen's beloved consort, the late Prince Albert, the position having been taken up by his son the Prince of Wales upon his death. The patron always attended, but this year not only was Prince Edward present but his wife, the Princess Alexandra, all their children, a great many of the Queen's other children, Prince Edward's brothers and sisters, their children in turn, and a small army of close relations, making this a Royal family outing.

It was their presence here, or rather the presence of one of them in particular, that was the precise reason Holmes found himself harassing poor Mrs. Hudson into airing and pressing, with great rapidity, this outfit…one he had not worn for several years.

The telegram from his source in Whitehall that had brought him here had arrived at nine thirty in the morning, just as he was finishing the late breakfast he had been taking after working late the previous night. The short message confirmed that his suspicions about police activities and intentions in the area of a private gentleman's club on Cleveland Street in London had proven accurate, and a raid on the establishment was planned for that very day, with the Metropolitan Police blissfully unaware of just what such a raid would uncover.

Holmes himself had become conscious of the possibility of such an occurrence when visiting Scotland Yard two days previously to discuss an entirely separate matter with Inspector Gregson. On doing so, he had overheard a group of detectives discussing a man called Hammond, as well as several remarks about the club at 19 Cleveland Street that he ran. As Holmes was aware that at least two gentlemen of his acquaintance, former clients and upstanding men both, were members of that club, he had felt it prudent under the circumstances to make further discreet enquiries about the place.

What he had subsequently learned had not surprised him…at first. Like brothels, though far less tolerated and far more brutally rooted out, 'Gentlemen Only establishments' existed around the city for those men who preferred the intimate company of their fellow man. Generally, they were very well hidden and often in more affluent cases discreetly disguised as reputable establishments, as was the case here.

However, such disguises were all too easily ripped away and sometimes in the most accidental of circumstances. Due to a case involving the theft of some cash from the London Central Telegraph Office and a telegraph boy suspected of a hand in it thanks to the abnormal amount of money he had been found to be in the possession of, the seemingly far removed Cleveland Street Club's façade had been eliminated. Facing years of imprisonment for a crime he did not commit, the terrified young man had confessed that he had received the money not by theft, but for illegal and immoral services rendered to the gentlemen at the Cleveland Club, leading them ultimately to his secondary employer Mr. Hammond.

Under normal circumstances, Holmes would have left it at that, and allowed the police under the direction of the redoubtable Inspector Abberline to do their duty under the law. But one of his former clients, he knew, was a married man, Holmes having made his wife's acquaintance one or two occasions, and finding her a pleasant, solid, young woman with a good head on her shoulders. Worse still, he also knew they had since started a family, and he was obtaining a prominent position for himself in the city. Should he be caught in the raid, he and his young family would be quite ruined.

Knowing discovered shame to be the most potent of forces, Holmes waited till late one evening, followed his man to Cleveland Street and intercepted him. Warning him away from the place, and informing him of the police's discovery of its true nature and what awaited him should he continue to deceive his wife this way, he had released the humiliated man, who was now terrified and now desperate to return home, and made to do the same, only to catch sight of three more men disembarking from a darkened brougham outside the club, the flash of the face of one of them in the lamplight stopping him dead in his tracks.

Shock flooding his system, he had stepped back once more into the shadows, trying to deal with the implications of what he'd seen. On returning to his cab, he had left a message with the night porter at Whitehall and returned home, so jarred by what he had discovered that his mind had not afforded him sleep until the wee hours of the morning, till such time he had distracted himself with small experiments and filing, when not pacing the floor, and smoking.

With confirmation of the time of the raid planned by Inspector Abberline for that very day in his hands, Holmes had full knowledge that with such a name on the books of their clients, either Hammond, his associates, or the press could bring a scandal down on their heads the likes of which would shake the Empire to its very core.

With most of the elite of London and indeed virtually the entire upper echelons of Government either at or making their way to the banks of the Thames at that moment, there was little recourse left to him other than to make haste to the same place to alert the individual and his private entourage to help avert that disgrace. Steps had to be taken in advance, and given Abberline's determination and efficiency, there was little enough time left for that.

By eleven, Holmes had dressed for a day at the regatta, and was on the next train to Henley with an hour and a half train ride ahead of him. On his arrival, his long legged gait had allowed him an advantage in beating the crowds from his train to the few carriages waiting nearby, and he had arrived here at a creditable one in the afternoon.

In general, his growing celebrity was a discomfort to him, but on occasion, as with Lord Coombes, the weight his name carried allowed him to gain access to areas he naturally would have been precluded from. Gaining an audience with the rotund Chief Steward, but finding himself unable to make mention of it being a State Emergency without alerting Lord Coombes to the exact nature of his business when the papers broke the following morning, Holmes had convinced him that it was imperative he gain access to the Enclosure, doing so with answers to Coombes's multitude of questions that so deftly avoided a straight answer that the greatest politician might have envied him his alacrity of thought.

"This had better not be about some woman or other, Mr. Holmes," Lord Coombes huffed, as he barrelled his way towards the Sanctum Sanctorum of Society. "Though I'll warrant it is!"

"Alas...how well you know me, your Lordship," Holmes, replied, his lips quirking upwards.

Shooting a glance at him, and not missing the underlying tone, Coombes huffed again, "I meant some..." he lowered his voice, "damn sordid adultery case or other. There is a time and a place for dealing with such private matters, and Henley is not one of them!"

"I quite agree, Lord Coombes," Holmes agreed with a nod. "And I do not take such cases...as a rule."

The portly man reached the enclosure, and stopped. "I have to return to the Judges area before the Steward's Challenge Cup begins...I have your word that whatever it is you have to do, you _will_ do it discreetly?" he demanded of the consulting detective.

"You may take it as already given," Holmes replied with an incline of his head.

The peer took a step away and stopped again, a still worried expression on his face. "Because I won't have Henley brought into disrepute!"

Holmes was calmness itself. "You may count on me."

"You are quite sure?"

"Quite."

With yet more hesitancy in his advance, Lord Coombes finally turned with an explosive "Bah!" at the temerity of people's lives intruding on the event, and stomped away.

The mild expression on Holmes's face, which had been fixed since his arrival, melted into one of businesslike determination as he turned and stepped inside the Enclosure, his armband allowing him access, his eyes sharp as he scanned the impressive gathering ahead of him.

Highborn men from England and abroad again dressed much as he filled the enclosure. Like the boys and undergraduates on the trains, the distinctive colours of Rugby, Harrow, The Priory, Eton, and colleges like Cambridge, Oxford, Trinity, Harvard, and Yale, amongst others, were prominent on their hat bands and ties and even on the silk sashes many of them wore around their waists. When not watching the rowers striving mightily in their racing down from Temple Island to Poplar Point and the finish line, the cream of male English society mingled, chatted, and brunched with their ladies, who were dressed in such cool finery as to leave one stricken with admiration…had one the time to stop and do so.

Moving inwards, Holmes headed for the area near the riverside and the Pimms tent, the purveyor of the famed and traditional Henley beverage, where the Crown Prince and his family were reputedly always to be found. Even had he not been aware of this, the discretely placed 'invisible barrier' formed by a densely packed number of people hovering while pretending to watch the races in an almost perfectly circular formation some twenty feet back from the true target of their attention, lapping up the Royal presence without entering its perimeter, was a most decided clue.

On slipping through to the front of that respectful circle, and garnering some sharp looks from several wealthy foreign matrons and their husbands, who deemed him an impudent upstart clearly only there to try and get his face seen, as opposed to they themselves who were loyal supporters of the Royal Family, Holmes waited at the edge of that self imposed circle until he caught the attention of Sir Henry Ponsonby, who smiled in surprise and beckoned him forwards, much to the chagrin of the aforementioned matrons.

Reaching his side, Holmes bent his head and whispered urgently to Ponsonby, whose smiling visage disappeared in an instant. Staring at Holmes, he glanced towards the Royal party and the tall figure of the Duke of Clarence, Prince Albert Victor, second in line to the throne and back at the detective, before pulling him further to one side.

"Are you sure?" he whispered.

Holmes nodded. "Eminently so...it will happen…my source is rarely wrong, less so than I, and on a subject as crucial as this…never."

"Can we stop it?"

Looking at his watch, Holmes shook his head. "Abberline's aim is to catch Hammond and those that work for him, take them and you have all the names too. The Inspector is a clever man. He knows that last night, prior to many of the members departing for Henley today, business would have been brisk and there will be a recovery period this morning. He plans an early raid to catch them unawares while the streets of London are less crowded thanks to events here, and the chance of losing oneself diminished. He has no doubt already moved his men into place."

Removing his hat, Ponsonby patted his grey head, smoothing his hair as he dropped his gaze to compose himself. "Dear God...the _fool_! We knew his private life was increasingly dissipated, and it's not the first time he's placed himself in trouble as you well know! Those appalling rumours about the Ripper murders thanks to his being spotted in his indulgences with…street girls…were bad enough. At least _they_ were untrue," the secretary muttered to Holmes. "But _this_?" He shook his head in disbelief. "The owners, the boys, other members…they'll name names for sure in an effort to avoid prosecution and disgrace!

"I should have pressed the Prince of Wales to keep him under tighter control. The boy is a menace! He hasn't the sense God gave him! How could he be so indiscreet and foolish to pander to a vice like…this…in such a place?" he asked himself with bewilderment. "Holmes, this could destroy the Monarchy if it's not dealt with!"

"We should talk with the Prince and his father," the other man agreed with a nod, glancing towards the Crown Prince and his son whose private excesses put even his libertine father to shame. "Provisions...steps need to be taken. I object to justice being thwarted no matter what the situation…but this is not about justice. This is the law. And the law in this case can only do more harm than good."

With grim agreement on his face, Ponsonby patted the detective on his arm and led him to the Royal family.

* * *

About an hour later, the Pimms tent nearby having being summarily appropriated and evacuated, the two Princes and a number of trusted aides retiring inside for a 'private party,' Holmes emerged into the sun dappled landscape again, the continued absence of the most central part of the Royal Party, for the moment, unmissed the crowd cheering on the College Crews as they strove for the finish line beyond. 

The discussion going on inside was quiet but critical. The Crown Prince's fury at his son's behaviour masked, and contained for a time when they would be more privately quartered, and away from those that were not royalty.

Moving away, his job now done, and all information imparted to the Royal party, Holmes's thoughts lingered on Prince Albert Victor and what kind of man he was, specifically with regards to his suitability to the throne.

His father was no paragon, but he at least at the good sense to keep his affairs manageable. Albert Victor was another case altogether. He was a victim of his passions, and they were more varied now than anyone had ever suspected. But there was more to him then mere debauchery…a secret that outside of the Royal family itself, only a very trusted few were privy too. The man who would someday inherit the throne of the greatest Empire on the planet suffered from a severe mental deficiency which bordered on clinical idiocy, which made it hard for him to remember the necessity of restraint in his actions and his emotions. And as history was testament to time and time again, a king incapable of restraint was a greater danger to his people than a horde of invaders. England and the Empire were looking at uncertain times.

Wishing the Queen many years of good health yet, he wandered through the enclosure, his gaze took in the environs around him though his thoughts stayed with the company behind him. So much so in fact that he had to move quickly to avoid the small group of four that he almost walked into, three moving hastily to the side, but the last, her large wide brimmed hat obscuring her vision did not, and he was unable to help having their shoulders collide.

With a gasp of surprise, she staggered back a step, reaching out a gloved hand to him in order to steady herself.

"Your pardon, Madam," he apologised automatically, his focus returning to the unsteady form ahead of him as he took her arm quickly. "Entirely my fault...my attention was elsewhere."

"Oh no! It's entirely mine...I should have been paying more attention..." the lady insisted, raising her head, her grey eyes meeting his and widening in shock. "Mr. Holmes?"

Taken unawares, Holmes stared at her for a moment before recovering himself, his mind already searching for a reason for his presence there. "Miss Thurlow. I had no idea you were a rowing fan," he returned with a slight frown. "What an unexpected surprise."

She blinked several more times, before regaining some semblance of composure. "A painful one I'm sure…I am sorry. I'm really rather surprised you aren't Dr. Watson…he and I have history of this kind of thing."

His expression was one of mild surprise. "Oh?"

She laughed softly and somewhat self deprecatingly. "Yes, I've already bumped into him twice in somewhat similar circumstances to this. This, had he been you…or you him," her brow furrowed, as she wondered which was correct, "well, that would have made the hat trick!" Giving him another smile and taking a deep breath, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm rambling. It _is_ good to see you...and..." Her voice lowered as she remembered her three companions. "I am not really a rowing fan...merely an inheritor of a ticket, I fear."

"Helen, is everything all right?" came a soft voice from behind them, and the young woman's eyes darted over to the lady standing a few steps back from the detective, her large brown eyes taking in the scene, as she held her husband's arm beside her.

"Yes, Sarah. Everything is just fine," she replied with a small smile, before releasing Holmes's hand and straightening. "Sarah, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes of whom you have heard me speak. Mr. Holmes, this is my cousin, Sarah Pembridge-Howley, her husband Sir Roger Howley, and their friend, Lady Elizabeth Grosvenor."

"Ladies. Sir Roger." Holmes bowed in turn. "A pleasure."

"Holmes...Holmes...?" the tall, athletic, handsomely blonde Sir Roger, a man of about thirty, frowned as his wife and her friend returned Holmes greeting. "Why does that sound familiar?" Stepping forward, he extended his hand to Holmes, even as he looked back over his shoulder to his wife. "Sarah...why do I know that name?"

"The detective, Roger," she replied, before smiling at Holmes and offering him her hand after her husband. "How do you do? I am afraid I have only heard of you by name, and via your acquaintance with my cousin, sir, but it is a pleasure to put a face to the name."

"Of course! The detective!" Sir Roger exclaimed, before smiling broadly. "I knew the name was deucedly familiar!"

While Sarah was all restraint and ignorance of Holmes, the same could not be said of Lady Elizabeth Grosvenor. A small fragile looking creature, her delicate frame belied the sheer amount of energy and vitality she exuded. It was an energy that was made manifest in the manner she was almost bouncing on her toes in anticipation of her meeting the detective, her large blue eyes clearly shining in admiration, as she patted her carefully coiffed blond hair, and almost rushed forward as soon as he had released her friend's hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Holmes! It is a real pleasure to meet you! I have, unlike my friend here, heard a great deal about you!" she gushed, as beside Roger, Helen stood quietly, trying not to wince, and being very aware what Holmes thought and felt of too much public attention, and on his quick look, sent him a sympathetic smile of apology.

With three to respond to, Holmes's forehead creased a little, and he coughed before taking the hand of the lady before him and bowing. "A great deal of it exaggerated, I'm sure, Lady Grosvenor," he replied.

"Fiddlesticks!" she replied, smiling beatifically up at him, before continuing, "I must go fetch my husband! He's is quite an avid reader of your stories! Oh yes, wait right here!" And with a quick turn, she raced as quickly down the path as was remotely possible for a lady of her station, as Helen cringed again.

Straightening and watching her rapid departure, Holmes turned to address Helen, instantly ready to make some excuse to depart to her, when he was cut off again by the soft voice of her cousin.

"Please forgive my friend, Mr. Holmes," Sarah apologised, having caught her cousin's expression. "She is of rather an excitable nature, I fear." She sighed a little. "Despite her commands to you to the contrary, may I suggest we walk on all the same? We were heading for a stroll, and as my cousin no longer has a partner, and you and she are of long standing acquaintance, perhaps you would you be so kind?"

Helen wasn't sure whether to be mortified at the suggestion, or shocked at her usually quiet cousin's increased vocalness, part of her wishing now that she had confided her currently conflicted state to her. It seemed whether she did or did not tell those closest to her of the state of her affections, they all contrived to push her towards him anyway!

Holmes, for his part, glanced after their departing friend again. "Lady Elizabeth would not be offended by your departure?" he asked, his frown increasing a little, as his eyes shifted from Helen to her cousin and back again.

"_Elizabeth?_" Sir Roger exclaimed with a laugh. "She's such a scatterbrained thing, I'll dare say she'll have forgotten why she went running to fetch Piers before she even finds him, never mind navigate her way back here again. Wouldn't worry about it, old man." He shook his head, as he took his wife's arm, towering over her by a good foot and a half.

"I see," Holmes replied, slipping his boater under his arm once more. "I hesitate to impose on your company, however." He inclined his head once more politely. "You must surely have plans for the day."

Helen gave him a small smile, and shook her head. "You would not be imposing in the slightest, Mr. Holmes, but I have no desire to hold you up either."

She fiddled with the handle of her parasol, and glanced back to the festivities; her eyes resigned at having to face to mob again, never mind the possibility that the seemingly ever present Duchess of Monmouth had proven that her behaviour at the Rose Ball was no singular event. It was quite clear now that the elderly matriarch had decided to make the eligible heiress her pet project and marry her off to some prominent bachelor who was well positioned but whose old and painfully noble family was patently in need of a cash infusion. With the eyes of a hawk, she had spotted Helen's entry, and had periodically, and with great determination, introduced her to yet another suitable match.

Holmes's gaze turned once more towards the exit when he saw Lord Coombes enter, the man's eyes falling on him and narrowing almost instantly. Observing the group he was with, the peer eyed them suspiciously, quite clearly trying to decide if these people were the case Holmes was involved in. On seeing a convenient smokescreen for his purpose here, and feeling it best to distance himself from the Royal Party as much as possible, Holmes came to a decision.

"No..." he said to Helen with a smile, "you would not be holding me up. My business here is in fact concluded, and so I am free and at your disposal, Miss Thurlow. I merely wished to avoid discommoding any plans you might have had. If I am not, I would happy to join you."

As her eyes almost shot back to him, she barely remembered to restrain her pleased and happy smile. "Not at all...as I have told you before on several occasions now, I believe," she rebuked him lightly, her voice carefully friendly and level. "I greatly esteem our conversations."

"They are quite diverting," he agreed, offering her his arm with a smile. "I find you ever increasingly to be a woman of refined and excellent taste, Miss Thurlow."

With a chuckle, she took his arm, as her cousin, offering them a genial smile, allowed her husband to turn them back around to follow the path.

"So?" he enquired, taking in the distance between her and her cousin and husband, and lowering his voice accordingly. "Must I assume you were _influenced_ into your attendance?"

She gave him a rueful look. "Sarah, in her well meaning way, thought it might be good for me to, as she put it, meet people. The _right_ people of course." She sighed softly. "It is not the outings that I mind...nor meeting people...but ever since I arrived I have been, well...bored...or..." Her shoulders noticeably slumped, as she glanced at him awkwardly. "Well…you see…that is to say, Her Grace the Duchess of Monmouth is here and…and it rather seems as if she…well…as if she remains bound and determined to…" she grimaced slightly at saying this to him, "quite simply, marry me off!"

Glancing up at him, she could not help but notice the twitch of amusement about his lips and sighed plaintively. "Oh really, Mr. Holmes," she chided, lamenting the situation. "It's not amusing. No, not in the slightest. All morning it's been a parade, one after the other...and all frightfully dull. I feel rather like a prize goose on display just before Christmas!"

His chuckle was barely restrained. "Come now, Miss Thurlow! Not _one_, bright spot amongst them?" he asked, his eyes dancing. "No dashing young knights or officers, foreign princes, or American tycoons?" he teased her. "No one amongst all these fine specimens of manhood?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, not sure if she was annoyed with him for his gentle joshing at her expense, or found it endearingly intimate. "Well..." she responded, providing him with the facts, "several asked about my trust fund in under the first five minutes. Others were slightly more tactful the subtle questioning about my father's business not appearing until…oh…at least ten minutes into our acquaintance. One appeared to me to be mildly inebriated..." Her brow creased a little in remembrance. "Although that might just have been how he spoke. And the remaining two...well..." She trailed off gazing uncomfortably around.

"The remaining two?" he prompted.

After a moment, Helen's chin rose, and she sniffed indignantly, "Did not look like they had appropriate thoughts on their minds."

Her eyes slipped sideways to him on feeling a short shudder through his arm, and she realised that he was fighting valiantly not to emit what he felt would be an ungallant expression of amusement.

With a short inhalation and a shake of his head, Holmes expressed his sympathy at her experience. "An unfortunate batch of suitors to be sure. The worst since Odysseus's poor Penelope's, without a doubt. At the very least, I would have thought the delicacy of the upper classes better developed. To be so discovered so quickly is either a true indictment of their lack of tact and mannerly behaviour...or a measure of your perspicacity, Miss Thurlow."

A tiny smile formed on her lips, as she gazed out ahead of them. "Perhaps a little of both...I suppose I have become rather cautious. It is not as if I do not want to ever marry, as you have heard me say...but if and when I do, it shall most certainly not be for financial or status reasons." She nodded with determination before the ridiculousness of her situation struck her - complaining as she was about the men seeking her to the only man she wanted to be sought out by, and whose only apparent reaction to her plight was not exactly filling her with hope that he disapproved of others seeking her out. Kicking herself quietly, she focused her thoughts once more, fearing the topic might soon bore him. "But quite enough of that, how fares your work, Mr. Holmes? Any interesting problems or research keeping you content?"

His lips pursed a little in thought. "There is one I have recently completed that you might find intriguing. Watson was quite delighted with it, which no doubt means I shall have to sit through pages of hyperbolic prose in the not to distant future. Though," he added thoughtfully, "as Watson would no doubt say, beyond the importance of the solution of the case itself, certain other factors in the events might help restore your faith that there may be a man who thinks more of the well being of the ones he loves than himself or his dignity." He glanced at her, judging her interest. "It involves a rather notorious beggar with a distinctive disfigurement."

Her eyes widened, her expression perking up instantly. "A beggar? What kind of disfigurement?" She blushed a little on hearing her response in her head. "I mean...I would love to hear more, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah me." He shook his head with exaggerated ruefulness, internally enjoying himself thoroughly as he teased her again. "You have betrayed yourself, Miss Thurlow...your time with Watson has corrupted you, and aimed you towards the hook of the tale rather than the problem contained therein."

Her face grew even more scarlet. "Well...I do not have many clues yet, Mr. Holmes, and…." she paused mid scramble, her eyes narrowing slightly, as she turned them slowly to him, "I believe you were the one that _baited_ the hook thusly?"

His lips quirked upwards. "Touché, Miss Thurlow."

With a slight huff, though inwardly delighting in catching him, she raised her chin again a little imperiously. "Perhaps you should start at the beginning?"

"Very well," he agreed thinking back. "I believe Watson and my involvement in the case began with the visit of two entirely different women to our respective homes. Both women unconnected, yet joined in a common concern for the welfare of their particular husband…and both with good cause. Watson's case of a missing spouse came to an end in an opium den where he joined in mine, having discovered me there pipe in hand." He smiled a little at the memory.

Her face shifted into one of concern. "Opium? I have heard that to be a most addictive drug, and that the unfortunates once under its sway become most desperate." She glanced up at him. "Such establishments are most hazardous. It must have been an important case indeed for you to go to such a place."

"Crucial," he agreed. "Feeling as I did that a man's life had ended there."

In the following minutes, he described the events witnessed by Mrs. Neville St.Clair in Upper Swandam Lane regarding her missing husband, up to and including the discovery of his clothes in the house of the Malay, and the arrest of the erudite crippled beggar with the twisted lip, Hugh Boone, for the murder of her husband, whose body had never been found.

She listened carefully to the details, and when he had finished, mulled what he had said, her lips pursed in thought. "So, they found his clothes but no Mr. St.Clair." She tapped her finger on the handle of her parasol. "Something is not sitting right...I find difficulty in believing this beggar to be guilty of such a crime."

"What makes you feel the beggar might be innocent?" he probed quietly.

"Well," she voiced her musings, "there is, as I said, no body, nor is there any apparent motive for him to kill or even hurt Mr. St.Clair...and...one must consider that he is a cripple and the apparent victim was a healthy, young, active man in the prime of his life. From what you have said, Mr. Boone is an eloquent and amiable beggar at that...none of these facts readily lends itself to either murder or murderous intent."

"Indeed," he replied, smiling at her reasoning, "and his indictment in the murder of Mr. St.Clair becomes more dubious still, when you consider his death occurred that Monday and yet, some days after that his wife received a letter from him, assuring her of his safety and enclosing his signet ring." He glanced over at her again to view her reaction.

Her face grew even more contemplative at that before she turned her head tot him with a frown. "So with what evidence can they even hold this man? He is clearly not involved in this murder, if there has even been one," she said with a little exasperation. "I would call it a wild goose chase, if not for the fact that the poor man is certainly missing."

"But you fail to consider however, Miss Thurlow, that the letter was no proof of his continued survival," Holmes pointed out. "The envelope was written by a foreign hand, most probably that of the Malay lascar's...and the contents could have been written before his death, for there was no date on the letter itself. As for the signet ring, it could have been taken from him by force, like his clothes. And whatever the situation regarding murder, the fact remains that Neville St.Clair disappeared from that room, _Boone's_ room, that day moments after his wife had spotted him...his coat was found weighed down on the river bed of the Thames with Hugh Boone's copious amount of coins...who then lied barefaced to the police about St.Clair's presence there. Boone was and remained the chief suspect."

Suitably chastened, she nodded. "All very good points, I agree. So, how were you able to put the matter to rest?"

He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders somewhat. "You were quite right...something did not sit right with me about the whole thing...and the letter only added to the feeling. It took me all night and a great deal of shag tobacco to light upon the one piece of the puzzle that afforded me a glimmer of insight into the entire matter."

She gazed at him expectantly when he did not answer right away. "And that was?"

He turned his eyes upon her once more. "Why does a beggar beg, Miss Thurlow? To what end?"

She frowned at the question. "Why for money...for food...for the means to support himself..." She stopped. "The money!" she breathed. "All the money in his pocket, how would…"

Holmes soft laugh cut her off. "A keen insight, Miss Thurlow…excellent in fact." He nodded, before continuing, "The money in St.Clair's pockets...Boone's money. It came to a most tidy sum on being counted. Quite a sum, indeed...it struck me as odd that he would have that much. Beggars rarely have that much to hand. Nor do they easily attain loyalty from men as vicious as the lascar was. Similarly beggars rarely quote Shakespeare and the Bible and seem well up on the latest publications and news. It struck me then that Hugh Boone was a most unusual beggar...and little about him conformed to what you would expect."

Fully aware that he rarely said anything that did not have some meaning behind it, Helen's brow knitted gently in concentration, deepening momentarily as a flicker of conflict appeared there, as something occurred to her that she found impossible to accept at first. But then gradually, her head rose and she looked at him with a tentative eagerness replacing her frown. "Before..." she said slowly, "you mentioned what a man would do for the well being of the ones he loves...?"

Glancing towards her cousin and her husband, Holmes let them walk on, before turning to face her. "Yes," he agreed, waiting.

She inhaled slowly. "A man would fight for them…die for them…might he not…beg for them?" she ventured, still finding it hard to believe, but when her faltering thoughts were met not with discredit but that glint of light in his eye, her eyes grew wider gradually. "But...how?" she breathed. "The beggar was deformed and crippled...and Mr. St.Clair is not..."

"No...he is not. However, he was in his time an actor. One to whom I feel I may well turn to for a lesson in the art of make up and disguise in the future," he mused.

Her hand rose up to her lips as though to hide her smile. "Amazing," she murmured with a shake of her head. "Is there so much money to be made in such a fashion that he could live so?" she asked him.

"If one is as entertaining and clever as Hugh Boone…it would seem so," Holmes answered with a nod. "He kept his wife and family in a very comfortable fashion."

Despite herself, she started to laugh at the oddity of the entire thing. "So, he was the beggar all the long..."

"Indeed, a situation that eluded me until I focused on Boone's peculiarities in earnest. Once I struck on that, incredible as it seemed to me, I began to strip away all preconceptions about him including physical features." He shrugged. "Never judge a book by its cover...nor a man by his appearance. Still...washing away one man and finding another waiting beneath will rank as one of my most memorable moments in detection."

"Indeed," she agreed, flashing a smile up at him. "It must have been quite the sight. But why did he not simply tell his wife?"

"Why does any man hide a secret from someone he loves?" he asked, before turning back to walk on. "For shame. For guilt. He was a respectable man earning a living by disreputable means...one for which he had been arrested several times. In addition, he had lied to his family for many years. He would rather have gone to the gallows than have the truth become public and have them shamed."

She sighed and shook her head. "Of course," she murmured, thinking for a moment of her father and his own hard kept secrets. "Though, were I his wife...I should prefer to know my husband was alive and well more than worrying about our reputation."

"Precisely the attitude Mrs. St.Clair took," he remembered, "but then women are less easily shamed by their husband's deeds than the men themselves. The two genders view what constitutes disgrace very differently."

"So, what shall happen to Mr. St.Clair?"

"He shall return to a more humdrum existence, I hope...pursuing the journalistic or theatrical life. He has taken an oath that Hugh Boone will be no more," he answered, smiling a little. "And so it is that one of London's more colourful characters breathes his last. As long as he remains so, Neville St.Clair will be a free man, and the police will refrain from taking action for his fraudulent waste of their time and begging...after all, no other more serious crime was committed."

"Indeed, and I am sure his wife is pleased and delighted to have him home!" she agreed.

"No doubt," he returned, nodding absently. "No doubt."

Her expression grew puzzled at his look, and after a moment, she squeezed his arm a little. "Is everything all right, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired, a fear rolling in her stomach that she was in some way boring him.

Glancing back at her, he nodded. "Perfectly, I was merely ruminating on how little in life is what it appears to be at first. And even fewer people. Be they beggar or prince."

She gazed at him curiously at that, but let it drop as they continued down the path to the river, and as they strolled, Helen's thoughts began to turn ever inward, her mind pondering their conversation for perhaps some inner meaning or subtle undertones that may show a hint of a faint, if highly unlikely, interest in her. Though with a private sigh, she was forced to admit there were none.

His intentions were as plain as his speech...he viewed her as a friend, an amiable companion, and nothing more. He had not even commented, or likely noticed, that she was no longer in mourning for her father. She glanced down at the pale blue and white dress she had picked out for today's events. No...not even a glimmer of awareness.

Nibbling her lip absently, she began, and it was not the first time she had done so, to question her sanity. She had always been a sensible woman, and had yet here she was again putting herself into a situation that she knew was hopeless and still endeavouring to find the way for it not to be. The sensible and logical course would be to bid him a good afternoon and go home, to walk away and not look back. Yes...that would be the best option for all.

And yet still, she could not find the will, the impetus, to move herself away.

Glancing up at his face and recognising the expression on it, she felt another surge of sadness wash through her, for it was obvious that not even his thoughts were here with her now and that some problem somewhere had now gripped the detective's mind.

Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, as she turned her head to gaze out at the crowds on the banks of the river and other couples strolling about as they took in the warm summer air…and groaned, as an older woman turned from where she was speaking to a striking young man in a military uniform, and caught her eye, the woman's features breaking into a most charming and meaningful smile.

"Sarah," Roger's loud voice came back to them. "Doesn't that young army chap with the Duchess remind you of William?"

"Yes, he does, dear," the petite woman agreed with a nod. "Which reminds me? When is he coming home again? I must get the dinner invitations printed."

"Oh no..." Helen breathed in as her cousin and husband discussed future dinner plans for their returning friend, her mind utterly focused on the shimmer in the Duchess's eye behind the pince nez she was using. "Not again." Turning away quickly, she smiled widely up at her walking companion, and moved a bit closer to him, her hand squeezing his arm a little to get his attention.

The Duchess slipped her arm into that of the officer by her side and with a studiously determined air and the regality and freedom of age, judiciously and unselfconsciously used her parasol in a way it had never been intended, commandingly clearing a path for herself through the crowded enclosure toward her pet project.

Distracted from his thoughts on his earlier case, Holmes looked down at the arm currently being squeezed and up at the perpetrator, to see the look of sheer apprehension on his companion's face. Following her gaze, he looked across the area to see the formidable Duchess approaching them, her bearing that of a woman upon a mission. Turning his head back to Helen, he observed both her nervousness and her increased proximity to him, and arching an eyebrow, he asked with a small smile a silent, if mildly amused, question of her behaviour.

Helen had never been particularly good at flirting; her lack of charm school and the harsher life she had led for ten years ensured that she had no real practice at the art. So instead of doing what came so naturally to her cousin and her other female friends, she settled on a rather shaky smile and a very honest glance behind them and an almost desperate look that pleaded with him to be her Odysseus as another suitor rode into view..

Gazing down at her, Holmes observed the rather charmingly nervous petition, and after a moment, he raised his hand and patted hers where it lay on his arm, though leaving it over hers as he took a step forward to move them on again, her cousin and Sir Roger having gotten some distance ahead of them. He stopped again, of course, as soon as the Duchess's inevitable call made itself heard.

"Miss Thurlow! Miss Thurlow! Be so kind as to hold for just one moment," she quasi demanded, the stately voice ringing out towards them.

Somehow, Helen found the strength not to flinch bodily, though her eyes closed and opened slowly at the command. Giving an apologetic but extremely grateful smile at Holmes, she composed herself, before stepping even a tad closer to him, and turning her head towards the Duchess. "Yes, Your Grace?" she replied sweetly.

"Helen, my dear..." the Duchess began as she swept up to them, "Oh!" She paused. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," she greeted him with some mild surprise, and before he could respond, turned her attention immediately back to the young woman beside him. "Helen, I have someone I believe I would like you to meet!" she sniffed, turning to the man beside her, and patting his red tuniced arm. "Miss Helen Thurlow, this is Lieutenant Andrew McMurray, 4th Lancers." She smiled over at her project knowingly. "His father is Lord McMurray of Aberdeenshire."

Biting back a real desire to just run or tell the well-meaning dowager to please leave her alone, she smiled amiably at the soldier and inclined her head in greeting. "Charmed, I'm sure," she replied, her hand tightening just a little on Holmes's arm.

"How do you do," the young man replied with a somewhat awkward smile. "A pleasure, Miss Thurlow." Inclining his head politely, and noticing her arm about Holmes's, his head turned to the Duchess in confusion, who was gazing at him with some mild irritation for his hesitancy until she finally noticed what he was reacting to, and turned immediately to Holmes, somewhat aggrieved.

"Mr. Holmes...what brings you here?" she demanded, the unspoken question about his consorting with her mission quite clear.

Praying he would not admit he was here solely on a case, Helen looked up at her companion with a soft, shy expression - one that could be interpreted in several different ways.

Holmes's fingers slipped around Helen's further, as he smiled lightly at the mature, meddling woman in front of him. "I came down for the races, Your Grace," he replied, "and…as Miss Thurlow's escort for the day." He turned and head and smiled down at the young woman on his arm. "Though I confess I am somewhat late..." he continued with an apologetic tone.

"Yes...quite late." The Duchess tapped her parasol on the ground.

"But, I am most glad that he was able to make it," Helen insisted, her smile at him softening even more, as she found herself relaxing into the part.

The Duchess, however, was not at all relaxed. In fact, she seemed more rigid by the second. "Miss Thurlow." She turned her blue eyes to the smaller younger woman. "Might I enquire - are you in the company of Mr. Holmes?"

Normally, Helen would feel nothing short of intimidated under those piercing blue eyes; in fact, half of Parliament would have been...and yet her smile remained on her face, as she placed her other hand on his. "Yes...I am."

"Well...really!" the Duchess huffed, and turned to the bewildered young man by her side. "Lieutenant McMurray, I'm afraid I brought you here under a false perception. I apologise."

The young man nodded quickly, patently terrified of the aristocratic force of nature. "Oh, of course, Your Grace, please don't concern yourself." Nodding and turning away, she went to address Helen again, but, on noting the soldier was still standing there, she turned her head slowly to him once more with an arched eyebrow that spoke volumes.

Blinking, the Lieutenant took a moment, before his eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh...oh...of course!" he said hurriedly. "Good day, Your Grace, Miss Thurlow...Mr...umm...good day." And with a bow, he rushed away quickly.

With the young man gone, and returning her attention to Helen, the Duchess straightened once more. "Well, Miss Thurlow?" she snipped, waiting expectantly.

"Your Grace?" the other woman replied with a slightly confused expression. "Is something amiss?"

"Kindly explain yourself, young woman," she insisted, tapping her parasol impatiently. "What is the meaning of...of..." The white lace umbrella was raised to tap Holmes upon the chest lightly before she waved it between them. "This!"

That, Helen did not have an answer for. So, she settled on continuing her rather oblivious act. "Meaning, Your Grace?"

Narrowing her eyes in impatience, the Duchess took a step closer. "Do not play coy with me, Miss Thurlow. I have spent a great deal of time and energy today in endeavouring to provide you with a suitable companion, all with a view towards the development of a suitable match sometime in the near future. You, in turn, have allowed me to do this without once mentioning that you and Mr. Holmes here have an apparent understanding." Her parasol tapped again more vigorously. "This is most embarrassing and quite vexing, I must say!"

"I'm afraid," Holmes said with a deferent air, "that I, and not Miss Thurlow, must shoulder the blame for that, Your Grace. You see, taking into account the business I am in, it is not always wise to advertise one's..." his eyes found Helen's, "attachments...too prominently, for their safety's sake. I'm afraid I asked Miss...Helen...to refrain from mentioning it widely for the moment." He gave her a soft smile before turning with an apologetic expression back to the Duchess. "It is possible she took me a little too literally, and rather than betray her promise to me, instead kept her silence…even in the face of your most kind and admirable efforts on her behalf."

The Duchess eyed him closely, her hands bouncing the parasol quickly on the sod beneath, before her head snapped to Helen. "Is this true, Miss Thurlow?" she pursued.

The young woman seemed to melt under his smile and gaze, and that fine barrier between the certainty that they were only acting and her very real feelings began to crumble, as her eyes shone with barely restrained adoration. That is until the woman next to her cleared her throat again, bringing her back to some modicum of reality. Swallowing, she turned back to her. "Yes...yes, it is true," she lied, but rather content to live in it herself for the moment.

"I see," the Duchess murmured, which was followed by a long moment of silence, during which it was patently obvious to both of them that the elder woman was deciding whether to favour this new development or not, before her chin rose slowly. "Well, quite apart from the possibly dubious propriety of engaging in such secretive behaviour, I feel bound to ask, and entitled to know considering you have now bound me in your web of obfuscation," her eyes glinted with a sudden trace of enjoyment, "how long has this state of affairs existed between the two of you?"

"Since the Rose Ball, Your Grace," Holmes answered smoothly without missing a beat. "Something we attended because of events at Pendragon House. Sad events to be sure...but because of them, Miss Thurlow and I found ourselves in a most congenial place, and confessed to this mutual admiration that has existed for my part at least since the day we first met, and which has grown into a warm and most convivial thing," he continued, before taking his companion's hand, and bringing her fingers to his lips to kiss them softly.

Swallowing, and her breath noticeably quickened, Helen felt the last of her restraint wash clear away as lips brushed her hand, and she was sure that everything that she had been feeling and kept locked inside was now fully evident on her face.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," the Duchess huffed. "Control yourself. Such unbridled affection in public is quite unbecoming, and most unlike the man I know you to be."

Lowering Helen's hand, he turned and gave the Duchess a slight bow. "Of course, you are quite right, Your Grace. I forget myself...I'm afraid the newness of the experience is a little overwhelming to me."

"Yes...well..." she replied. "I must admit I do remember what it was like when Mortimer and I were first courting." Her eyes slowly became a little distracted, as she recalled, "He was quite a firebrand in his day, and could sometimes be..." Catching herself, she cleared her throat and looked back at them. "Well, that is of no importance now. Very well, I accept your apology! Though, Helen, my dear...in the future you really must confide in me," she scolded lightly.

"Of course," the young woman instantly replied, her voice a little dreamy.

"I must admit," the Duchess pondered, gazing at Holmes, "that you are hardly the man I envisaged for Miss Thurlow. But then, position and title aren't everything, I suppose." She sighed in a voice that didn't sound entirely sure of that. "And you are a most remarkable man...therefore, I am willing to keep your secret for the moment, Mr. Holmes."

"On behalf of Miss Thurlow and myself," he replied, "you have our most profound gratitude, Your Grace."

"However!" the matriarch added. "Such things can only continue respectably for a time, sir. You must sooner rather than later make your intentions public; otherwise rumours shall start to spread about impropriety."

With a solemn nod, Holmes accepted the advice, his face perfectly composed.

Glancing at the small watch pinned to the front of her dress, the Duchess smoothed her lilac taffeta gown a little, and straightened her matching hat. "Very well...now that that is quite settled, I believe I shall repair for a Pimms." She paused and turned her eyes back to the pair. "Would you care to join me?"

The thought of having to spend more time with the formidable Duchess was what finally brought some functionality back to Helen's love-besieged brain, and with a regretful smile, she shook her head. "That is a kind offer, Your Grace, but Mr. Holmes...I mean, Sherlock...and I were hoping to stroll a bit longer. Perhaps we shall meet with you later?"

"Perhaps," Her Grace replied, a corner of her mouth turning up in a rare hint of a smile. "I shall be staying here to dine...if you are free, ask for me and I'll leave instructions for you to be brought to my table." Raising her parasol as the sun emerged once more, she nodded. "Enjoy your stroll, my dear. And you, Mr. Holmes."

"Your Grace," Holmes and Helen chorused, as she turned and walked away. Watching her go, Holmes kept his solemn and serious face in place right till the moment his head returned to his partner in deception, his eyes starting to dance, as his lips quirked in mirth.

Helen could not help but respond to the way his eyes shone and the genuine humour in his face, her own lips pulling up into a light and happy smile. However, though the relief at finally dodging the Duchess was palatable, there was also a sadness that seemed to be brewing inside of her. Brief as it was, she had had her taste of honey. That glimpse she had had of Holmes the suitor, even if it was a lie, had been a sweet one, and now it was at an end and her emotions would again have to be locked away from him and the world.

"I believe, Miss Thurlow, in finding a suitor, you have become a free woman," he congratulated her with a chuckle.

"Oh yes...until she realises that we have tricked her, that is," she replied with a wry laugh. "Still, I shall relish the quiet while it lasts."

Patting her hand, he drew her to walk beside him once more. "Well, there is no reason to think it should not last for a while...it is not as if you see her tremendously often. Even if it may on occasion feel that way," he consoled her, his smile broadening.

Her own smile grew a little wider, though she dared not hope that he did not mind it continuing because _he_ wished it to. "Well...that is very generous of you, Mr. Holmes. Though, your reputation may suffer a little were it to continue."

"Perhaps," he mused with a nod. "Though rumours have circulated before. In any event, I believe a celebratory lunch may be in order. We did eminently well, Miss Thurlow," he congratulated them both. "Her Grace is a perceptive woman in many regards and very quick witted...though her leanings towards the romantic, both in terms of literature and life, are sometimes blatantly obvious." He shook his head, his smile becoming more self deprecating. "Even so, for a moment there I fear I may have overplayed my part. I confess I based it somewhat on Watson, and my memory may be biased towards his being overly affectionate."

She gave him a quick smile that was only really a mask to keep the pang she felt inside at his words, and shook her head. "No, you did wonderfully. Your acting ability is quite formidable...had I been another woman...well, it was very believable."

"You would never make a critic, Miss Thurlow," he returned with a laugh. "You are entirely too kind hearted. No...I'm afraid my performance was coloured by my preconceptions of the romantic male." He shook his head ruefully as they strolled off in search of her cousin. "It is not my forte...and while I'm happy you are free of a dreadful burden for the moment, I confess to being most grateful that I do not have to play the part every day!"

Helen kept her eyes fixed on the view ahead of them, relieved her hat obscured her face, for she knew if she looked at him, she would surely burst into tears. In truth, the small pain in her stomach had turned into a stabbing one in her chest, and any left over euphoria she had felt on seeing him, if only for the briefest of moments, look at her the way she had so often hoped and dreamed he would, vanished completely.

Fighting the overwhelming urge to simply feign illness and leave the event, she merely replied with a level, "Indeed." And instead turned her head and smiled at him, well accustomed now at putting a bright face on things, and hiding her inner thoughts. As she did so, she realised that dealing with this alone was becoming intolerable, her defences were gone and her good sense with them. All she had feared was coming true, for slowly and without knowing it, he was ripping her to shreds…and she was letting him. A decision would have to be made on what she was to do about this, and it would have to be made soon.

Holmes returned her smile, as another cheer went up from the assembled crowds at the view of rowers in the next race heading for home, and, gesturing towards her cousin ahead with his boater, led her back to them.

* * *

**Authors' Notes: Thank you once again to everyone that read and/or reviewed! We love hearing from our readers, and please feel free to continue to do so:) That said, I'm afraid we simply can't answer anyone's questions or comments on what exactly the nature of the relationship between Holmes and Miss Thurlow is. Though, I think this chapter pretty much states it. Also, we just both wanted to let you know that the next chapter (which may be a conglomerate of two chapters…they seem to be looking too small to be stand alone) may be up a little later than usual. This is due to us rushing out and madly reading the new Harry Potter book. Yes, we're rather rabid Potter fans (well, Snape fans…), so this book has been very much anticipated. UO will be only be a couple days late at the most though. Again, thank you for all your kind words and points, and enjoy this chapter! Hugs to all, Aeryn (of aerynfire)**


	13. Disillusioned

_Chapter Thirteen: Disillusioned_

_30th July, 1889_

Frascati's of Oxford Street was, to those that knew of it and could afford to dine there, an oasis in the tumultuous heart of London's foremost commercial avenue, and never more so than on a scorching hot, end of July early afternoon when shade and tranquillity were at an absolute premium.

The building, demure and less than pretentious from the simple entrance, was, to the eye of the customer, quite transformed upon entering. Inside, rather than the straight white lines of the interiors of other notable institutions upon the street, the restaurant opened wide, giving the illusion of being far greater on the inside than out. The octagonal shaped sides of the great building spread expansively outwards, its high walls, white marble veined with black, giving an immediate air of coolness and freedom from the heat and bustle outside.

Two tiered and with a separate grill room moreover, the effect of having stepped from chaos and into a pleasure palace fit for a Roman Emperor was enhanced by the grand dome of green glass that covered the ceiling high above and the decorative gold and silver everywhere. The gilded pillars supporting the balcony, and which in a more slender form ran from there to the roof, were topped with silver angels, and the rails of the balcony itself gilt as they ran around the octagonal heart of the place.

On both floors, the dining alcoves that stretched back provided privacy and further tranquillity, and were mirrored and decorated in gold with fawn or pale grey. In addition, the strategic placement of a softly playing string quartet helped further discretion by muffling the sound of conversation conducted by the cool marble and high vaulted ceiling. Large palms and marble and bronzed statuettes had also been placed about the room to further enhance the Romanesque quality of the establishment.

The waiters, immaculate in all black and with a silver number in their button-holes to both indicate their 'rank' as well as to ease their customers' recognition of them, bustled to and from the busy kitchens, and hovered in rapt attention around the tables to which they were assigned.

Currently engaged in neither such activity, was the fleet footed, balding little man with the serene face and handlebar moustaches, who led Mary Watson to her table within a welcomingly cool alcove in sight of the door, drawing back her chair at the table for two.

Mary, clad in palest blue muslin, quickly and happily removed her gloves, nodding to the waiter with a silently rueful smile about the heat, as he finished seating her and offered her a menu. In an equally hushed and exceptionally quick response, he darted away to return almost instantly with a welcome glass of iced water, and a cool cloth which she took with an inordinately grateful look, resolving there and then that he should have the biggest tip she could afford on her departure.

On her declining a drink, and resolving instead to wait for her luncheon partner, the little man bowed sharply, draped his white linen serving cloth over his black clad arm, and slipped fleetingly away to give her privacy and time to collect her thoughts.

She was early, her luncheon appointment being for one o'clock, but the day was such that it had only just gone ten to the hour when the stifling heat of the city had driven her from her hansom cab to the enveloping coolness of her destination. Her pregnancy, though not greatly advanced, was already having its effects upon her, and the heat and accompanying humidity were not helping.

Giving thanks again for her foresight in picking the shaded marbled interior of the stylish cafe as the rendezvous point for this meal, Mary placed the cool cloth she had been dabbing discretely to the back of her neck back to the table, and sat back to peruse the menu half-heartedly. Inordinate heat made it hard to concentrate at any time, but even as she cooled most of her attention was laid not at this luncheon but on the person who would sit opposite her for its duration. The person whose birthday they were there to celebrate and the person she was growing increasingly worried about.

Helen's demeanour these past three weeks or so had been increasingly unlike her own. On her regular visit to John and their own subsequent shopping trips together, she had not been the Helen Thurlow she knew. When not actively engaged in conversation, her good humour, thoughtful and insightful ways, and genteelly extrovert nature had been replaced by a listlessly, quiet, introspectiveness, and…there was no getting away from it…a melancholy air.

For good or ill, it took no great insight to know what…or rather who…was the cause of such dolorous comportment. Of anyone, Mary Watson was probably the one who knew it best - something that did not sit easy with her, as that piece of knowledge resided side by side with the thought that she had played her own part in his affecting this change upon her dear friend.

Frowning gently to herself, as her eyes unseeingly perused the _hors-d'oeuvre varies_, she knew she could kick herself for misreading the situation so badly, and for not listening to John in the first place when he said that Sherlock Holmes simply wasn't the marrying kind.

But she'd refused to accept it, her own glad heart at her impending nuptials apparently colouring her judgement; so much so that beyond his growing tolerance and admiration for Helen, Mary had been so _sure_ she'd seen signs, glimmers in him of an affectionate attachment he had never shown for any other woman. Bad enough, she now thought, but worse…far, far worse, she'd foolishly chosen to act on it. And, indeed, pursued the matter with her husband until his own romantic nature had been stoked and blinkered by her enthusiasm, and they had nudged their friends forward towards one another, hoping to see the attachment blossom, only to have to sit and watch her friend wither instead.

Not that Helen spoke of it.

Perhaps that was the worst part of it all. Helen, so long used to taking the hardships life had thrown at her and dealing with them silently and quiescently, had continued in that vein, even though she was no longer alone. Whereas before she had only herself to rely on, now she had family and friends, but instead of opening to them she had apparently chosen not to burden them with what she undoubtedly felt was her own problem.

But such burdens, as Mary knew, grew only heavier with time if not shared, and Helen's still, subdued stoicism was, she felt, only making the situation worse both in personal and practical terms. Her friend needed to talk about this…and more importantly…try and find a way to deal with it. Picking up the reading of her menu, she regarded it attentively this time, her head nodding slightly in hushed affirmation of that last statement of intent. If there was one thing that would come from this lunch, Mary Watson was determined that would be it.

Approximately five minutes later, just as the waiter was refilling Mary's now empty glass, Helen walked through the doors, though in truth she looked more like a pale, frailer version of her normal self. There was still that undoubted wistfulness around her, and though she was, like Mary, dressed in light, bright, and cheerful attire that fit the warm July day and the happy occasion that was her birthday, she looked anything but herself.

Approaching the maitre d' and introducing herself, while gazing lightly around the room, she spied her friend seated near the back and with a smile that was genuine but extended to force her cheerfulness to greater heights, she followed the maitre d' over to their alcove table.

"Good afternoon, Mary," she greeted the blonde woman warmly as she rose to meet her, each other kissing the other lightly upon the cheek, and there was a flash of her normal sparkle in her eyes as she sat down on the other side of the table. "I do hope I have not been keeping you too long?"

The other woman shook her head. "Good afternoon, Helen, and no, not at all. I was early in fact, and came directly in. It is far too warm for me out there these days," she replied, giving another shake of her head, though this time in wonder at the continued extreme hit of this particular English summer.

Another smile touched Helen's lips, as she nodded. "Indeed!" she agreed, inclining her head in thanks to the waiter for the menu, glass of cool water, and cloth.

As he left them, Mary leaned over the table with a happy smile, and placed a small wrapped gift, taken from her purse, on the table in front of her. "At least you have a fine day for it…a very Happy Birthday, Helen," she enthused.

Helen's gaze turned from the gift in front of her to her friend's face, her own visage filling with affection and gratitude. "Mary, you shouldn't have!" she demurred, her hands going to the mid size box.

"Nonsense," her friend replied with the lightest of scoffs. "It's your birthday! Of course, I should have. And it's not much. Truly. Merely some new handkerchiefs I monogrammed and embroidered for you."

Unwrapping and opening the box, Helen drew out one of the three delicate linen handkerchiefs, and ran her fingers over the delicate climbing roses exquisitely sown into one corner of the handkerchief, her initials tangled like trailing briars amongst the blossoms.

"Mary…" she breathed, "they're beautiful! Such fine work!"

The other woman shook her head, and flushed slightly. "I know that it probably seems foolish giving you of all people something like this, considering you are an expert seamstress…"

"Nonsense," Helen deliberately echoed her friend's word and firm tone. "They are superb, and I will treasure them."

"I'm sure they pale into insignificance with what you have received thus far," Mary insisted, and was rewarded with what was a rare occurrence these days, a pure happy laugh from Helen Thurlow.

"Oh, indeed…." she agreed, "this morning my brothers proudly presented me with two large bars of pure milk chocolate…and two wooden swords. The latter of which they swore I would need to fight off pirates. After much discussion, it was decided that it would be much more prudent if _they_ retained them in order to defend me from the pirates. Whereupon, the chocolate was, I believe…'press-ganged'…into their service to help provide sustenance while on naval patrol." She shook her head, as Mary started to laugh. "I do hope Goodwin is able to keep them from eating it all…Mother has a celebratory dinner planned for this evening, and I would rather little green faces were not staring at me."

Mary did her utmost to contain her humour at the images, and shook her head, her eyes soft. "Oh…Helen, I know it's a trial for you sometimes, but I can hardly wait till that's me."

Helen's smile grew more, remembering her friend's condition and anticipation. "And how are _you _feeling?" she asked, placing her napkin upon her lap. "Is everything well with the baby?"

Her friend's eyes shone as she smiled happily. "Quite well. Everyone seems most happy with me. Not least John." She chuckled, and leaned forward once more, her voice low and mirthfully confidential. "So much so, I heard him singing Rigoletto after his surgery last night."

The other woman's grey eyes widened. "_Singing?_" she breathed, a hand flying to her mouth to keep herself from giggling. "Well, I have always thought you both will make excellent parents. There is a lot of love in your hearts...and plenty to share."

"Thank you, Helen. That means a great deal to me," Mary replied, touched, and reached out to squeeze her friend's hand momentarily. "And John _will_ make the most wonderful father, though I may have to struggle to ensure our child is not spoiled terribly. I fear, knowing his chivalrous and admiring nature," she continued with a chuckle, "if it's a girl, he will be _absolutely_ under her thrall from day one."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Helen agreed, her cheeks flushing with life at the happy subject, as she took a sip of her water, her eyes dipping down to the menu, as she tried to decide.

The blonde woman watched her for a brief moment before lowering her eyes to her own menu. "And beyond your birthday celebrations, how are things at home?" she enquired lightly.

"Very well," her friend replied. "The boys are both doing well with their tutoring, though Matthew excels while Andrew has to struggle somewhat..._both_, however, excel in wreaking havoc as usual." She smiled a little. "Poor Mr. Boots will never be the same. He got caught by one of Andrew's chemistry experiments, and his fur got a bit singed. Though at least the set is now out of chemicals, so Goodwin is breathing somewhat easier."

Laughing softly to herself, Mary nodded. "I can quite imagine. Out of chemicals already? Andrew must have been a busy young man! And your mother? Do you find her progressing still?"

"Mother is doing marvellously," Helen replied, her pleasure obvious on her face. "She is becoming more active, and has a weekly whist night at the house. She is also becoming more involved in charity work for our church. I think having been in poverty herself, she feels as I do, that we should give back to others now we are in more fortunate circumstances."

"That _is_ wonderful!" Mary agreed with a smile. "Both as an attitude and to hear about how well she is doing. Life down there seems to be treating your family well…they appear to be thriving."

"Undeniably," the other woman agreed, finally deciding on a light lunch of filet of sole with a dressed salad containing fresh French garden peas, baby potatoes, and haricots, and closing her menu. "It seems that they have found their niche in St. Albans."

"And you?" Mary looked up at her with an open gaze. "Do you too find that is where you belong?"

The light in Helen's eyes dimmed a little as she nodded. "Indeed...I am quite content there. It is peaceful, and I find I enjoy the country air far more than the city. Even though I come back here often and love London, I must admit when I arrive back at The Birches I do truly feel like I've come home." She flashed Mary a smile, the light returning to her eyes at a thought. "You must come out and visit before the summer is over."

"What a wonderful idea!" Mary agreed readily. "I would love to, thank you, Helen! To take a break from this humid city air would be most welcome, and I must confess I have envied John his frequent visits there. His descriptions…well you know how vivid and alive he can make things sound." She closed her menu with a smile. "Although I often chide him that he and Sherlock must not abuse your hospitality too often and outstay their welcome just because of the excellent teas you serve."

A shadow crossed her face at the mention of the detective's name, but the other woman simply smiled and shook her head. "Nonsense, they and you are welcome at anytime. I enjoy the visits I receive from my friends, and the boys love it when John visits. He's become a much favoured uncle to them."

"He adores them," Mary agreed. "He keeps talking about taking them to the zoo the first time you bring them up when he's not caught up with either work or a case." She shook her head ruefully. "Of course, between your infrequent timetable and his, such things are hard to organise." She motioned towards the waiter to come to take their order. "When was the last time you were in London?"

Even in the subdued lighting of the alcove, Helen's face clearly paled, though she endeavoured to keep her voice and manner causal. "Oh...a little less than a week ago. I came up for a board meeting and to attend a concert," she stated simply.

"A concert?" her friend asked before looking up at the waiter. "I will have the comfit of duck and the salad vert please," she ordered, handing him her menu, after he wrote it down, and then looked enquiringly at Helen, who gave him hers as well.

Handing him her menu, she waited until he was gone before answering Mary. "It was a string ensemble playing Vivaldi. Mr. Holmes was good enough to ask me to accompany him…" she quietened suddenly, glancing down at her hands for a moment, her next words slightly tremulous, "though it seems he was not able to attend in the end." As she breathed in, her cheeks flushed at the memory of how she had found out. "You must thank John for sending his kind note to me at the concert hall to let me know. I'm afraid I haven't seen him to do so myself."

Mary inclined her head in a mildly uncomfortable nod. "Yes, Sherlock was called away suddenly. He burst into the surgery to prevail upon John to join him, quite startling his outgoing patient." She joined her hands on the table. "I am sorry you had to experience that. But I'm quite sure if Sherlock had had time he would have…"

Flashing her a smile that did not reach much further than her lips, Helen shook her head before her friend could finish, both of them knowing that what Mary was going to say wasn't precisely true.

For Holmes, nothing captured his attention like his work, the fact that the note of apology had come from Watson and not him had spoken volumes. Despite this, however, her own words continued the façade. "No...it's quite all right. He's a busy man, and was called away quite suddenly," she insisted, though it was obvious that both that and the method of departure had hurt considerably. "It is of no consequence." Her eyes remained on the table as she fiddled absently with the tableware, nibbling on her bottom lip a little.

A surge of annoyance rippled through Mary, who had heretofore been inclined to her usual forbearance in the face of Holmes's unorthodox behaviours. "Being left unescorted at the theatre is always of consequence," she replied firmly. "He is far too casual with his ways sometimes. He should have contacted you himself, and arranged for someone to escort you back to your hotel."

Helen sighed and looked up at her friend. "It was only a recital, Mary...and there were many people there by themselves. I certainly did not look out of place."

"Nevertheless, it was inconsiderate of him in the extreme. He too often fails to take into account people's feelings in such dealings." The blonde woman shook her head in irritation. "When is your next outing with him?" she enquired

"There is not one…not yet," Helen answered quietly, her gaze intent on the fork she was currently fiddling with. "I suppose whenever he finds he has some free time, and John is too busy to go."

Mary stared at her, both amazed and appalled that such a strong and independent woman was willing to treat that state of affairs so casually, the true depth of her friend's feelings for the detective beginning to make themselves plain. "I see, and how do you feel about that?"

Silently, Helen placed the fork back neatly on the table, and gazed at her friend with increasingly red-rimmed eyes, her voice thickening though she fought to keep it light. "It's a situation I've become used to, Mary. I enjoy his company...and...well, I understand that his schedule is rather random." Her hands shook a little as she removed her gloves.

"Helen…" Her friend frowned gently, her eyes filling with concern at the other woman's position, as she reached out to touch her hand again. "I understand that you understand...but how do you _feel _about it?"

Her auburn head bowed again, and she seemed almost unwilling to answer or even look at her companion as she sat there, and it was obvious to Mary that she was deeply torn. "I am..." she started after what seemed a long silence, "it is...oh, Mary, what am I to do?" Her voice was a pleading whisper, as she finally looked up into her friend's blue eyes, her own filled with anguish. "I...am twenty and six years old today, and, heaven help me, in love with a man that feels nothing of the sort for me. In fact, I knew this would be the case from the start, and was still fool enough to let myself get to this point. I can't eat. I barely sleep...I'm a confused mess on most days, and ironically, only work seems to take my mind off of it. It's completely intolerable...and yet, I..." She trailed off and looked at her friend helplessly.

Mary gripped her hand tightly in sympathy. "Can't bring yourself to change things, because you feel happy when you are with him?" she finished for her.

Her shoulders visibly sagged, as she nodded in reply. "I...I can't stop myself from going to him...I'd do anything for him. I know I have completely lost my senses...but I do it anyway." She swallowed, and for a moment looked rather irked at herself. "It is an impossible situation, Mary. I can't keep living this way, and yet I can't change it."

Watching her unhappily for a moment, Mary rose and moved her chair around the table closer to her friend, unheeding of any looks or glances that might come her way for such unorthodox behaviour. "I am sorry, Helen, truly so. All the more as I feel I have contributed to this far more than I ever wished I might have." Taking both her hands in hers, the blonde haired woman frowned deeply. "I never should have encouraged John to think that this match might have been ideal for you both. I let myself forget Sherlock's unique viewpoint on life and its softer side...and thought his...well never mind what I thought. I was patently and foolishly wrong. Forgive me."

Helen shook her head quickly. "I do not blame you or John...I never have. Only myself. I knew better, and yet stayed when I knew I should walk away." Her head dropped, as she stared sadly at the table.

After a protracted moment of silence, Mary took a long breath, and spoke again quietly. "Helen...you are quite right. You can't keep living this way. But you can change it...you must...if you do not it will eat away at you if you let it. And you cannot allow that. You have a mother still convalescing...two young brothers to watch over...and business responsibilities that make my head swim." Turning her friend's face to look at her, she gazed at her with blue eyes that were soft and warm. "I know how love can consume one...make one's mind focus solely on it and nothing else. I suppose this is what Sherlock fears so much...and perhaps...perhaps, you must learn from him in this regard, dearest Helen. You are as strong as he is. I feel that you can do as he does…just this once."

Inhaling slowly, her friend's auburn head bobbed shakily. "I should...walk away. Give myself some time and distance between us. Time to let go." Biting her lip, she continued, her voice pained, "I cannot forget him...nor would I wish to...but...I can busy myself...be less available." She gave the other woman a weak smile. "I just hope I have strength you attribute to me."

Mary hedged a little before she spoke. "I think…perhaps...you might find it easier to do..." she paused again before she continued, "if you were honest with him?"

Her friend seemed to pale even more. "_Tell_ him? Oh no! I couldn't! It is one thing to know he feels nothing for me, but another for him to say so in his forthright manner that he does not. I would never be able to face him again...no matter how much time passed."

"No, no. What I suggest..." Mary said quietly, calming her, "is not that you tell him of your feelings, and only that. But rather that you are frank with him on how things stand, that you found yourself drawn to him...that you knew it was a dangerous thing, and that such an attachment would never be reciprocated, that you have decided to distance yourself from him for both of your sakes. He would, I think, be far less inclined to press you for further contact. And...knowing Sherlock, he would undoubtedly be the more impressed by you for your self-control and rational thinking." Her blue eyes gazed directly into her companion's grey ones. "Besides, Helen...he does deserve an explanation for why someone he values is withdrawing from his life."

The other woman looked vastly unsure about that line, though she did have to admit to herself her friend had a point. Nibbling her lip again, she gazed at Mary with a rather pained expression. "I suppose...but..." She sighed. "I am an utter coward. He will be either be very gracious or disapproving...and very likely submit me to a lecture on allowing myself to feel this way in the first place. However...he does deserve something of an explanation..."

"I feel it would be best. For him. For you. And, " she gave her friend a sad smile, "he has enough reason in his mind to dismiss women as a shallow lot. For you to simply fade away on him, would, I fear, put a nail in that particular coffin lid. I think your honesty, which is something he holds in great esteem, could only benefit his perception of you...and perhaps of us all."

Helen stared at the table for several minutes, pondering not only Mary's words, but the entire problem and any foreseeable outcomes. Finally, a great shuddering sigh seemed to bubble up from within her, and she nodded. "Very well. Next time we meet, I shall speak with him," she agreed, her voice soft and resigned.

Mary nodded once in reply. "But take some time...I can have John tell Sherlock that you will be in St. Albans for a few weeks thanks to matters there. Between that and his work, you will have the time you need to compose yourself a little." Slipping an arm about her friend, she hugged her gently. "I will visit if you like...we can talk further...and this way, I will get to see the Twin Birches at last."

A small, genuine smile formed on the younger woman's lips. "Thank you, I appreciate that...and yes, you must come visit," she replied, before returning the hug. "Provided you are able to, of course."

"I shall be perfectly able to travel for some time yet," Mary insisted, sitting back into her chair. "Even if I must bring John to flutter anxiously beside me," she huffed slightly.

With a soft laugh, Helen shook her head, feeling somewhat lighter inside for having released a long held-in burden. "Oh dear...well, we can't have that can we?" she voiced. "Let us hope that John is equally busy at the time of your visit then."

"I shall see what I can do to gently nudge him towards Sherlock for the time being," Mary returned with a chuckle. "After all in a few months time, he will be loathe to leave my side at all, and I shall tell him so." She slipped her chair back around the table, as the waiter approached them again, and as she gazed across at her friend, her smile dimmed just a little. "You are quite wrong, you know...you are very brave. And that courage will carry you on from this. You will find your way on from here...from him. In time. Even though you may not believe it or currently want to."

Helen's cheeks flushed with colour, and though at that moment, she doubted her friend's prophetic powers, as the ache was still low inside her, and the flutter of nerves still there at what she intended to do, her smile was warm and grateful. "You are a kind soul, Mary, and I am lucky to have you for a friend," she told her honestly, before giving her a lighter smile. "Thank you."

* * *

_23rd August, 1889_

"Your coat check, sir." The busy cloak room attendant handed Holmes the ticket before swiftly moving on to the next customer of the Covent Garden Theatre that night. Taking the ticket, and slipping it into the pocket of his white dress waistcoat, he turned to his companion beside him, who stood with her back turned, distracted by the elegant crowd entering as they had via the Corinthian colonnaded entrance on the Piazza outside.

The audience for that evening's performance of Donazetti's Lucia di Lammermoor sparkled in strictly enforced evening dress that was _de rigeur_ during the opera house's Italian Season for all save those occupying the upper slip seats far above the auditorium.

They gathered in the vestibule, milling and talking before making their way to the refreshment bar, stalls, or up the sweep of the impressive and richly carpeted stairs to the mezzanine and the grand tier or their boxes. The place was filled and abuzz as it always was on opening night - the lure of the Opera House's celebrated young coloratura soprano, Nellie Melba, reprising her role as the eponymous heroine from her debut season two years prior, too hard to resist.

"Miss Thurlow?" Holmes interrupted her near trance like state. "Your cape?"

"Hmmm?" she replied, turning to face him, before realising what he was asking. "Oh! Yes, of course." Taking off the long, deep green cape that matched her gown, she handed it to him with a smile. "Do forgive me...my thoughts are a little distracted this evening."

With an understanding nod, her companion retrieved the check stub for her sleek, satin garment and handed it to her, watching her slip it into her purse before beginning to walk with her towards the centre of the antechamber. "Would you care for a pre-performance aperitif?" he asked, noting an almost immediate return to her distant demeanour, the reason for it well known to him by now.

She gave him a vague if grateful smile, and nodded. "Yes, thank you, that would be lovely," she answered.

Guiding her in the direction of the bar, Holmes left her near a cushioned sofa nearby, and navigated the crowded spot to locate a convenient place near one corner, beckoning to one of the busy barmen who acknowledged him as next. Looking back at his companion's face across the way it was not hard, even from this distance, to see she had slipped into deepest, distracted thought once more.

It had been some weeks since he had seen her. Her family affairs, his case load...had precluded it. It was entirely possible she would not be with him tonight had it not been for unexpected and tragic events that had taken them all unawares...events that even now were clearly on her mind.

Having watched him move off to the bar, Helen had released the breath that she had been holding deep inside since she had met him outside her hotel that evening. Though the butterflies that were currently swarming in her stomach were dedicated mostly to him and the news she knew she would impart to him that night, her thoughts were still for her dear friend who was currently confined to her bed in Kensington, and whose husband should have been here in her place.

Helen sighed to herself as her memory again slipped to two weeks earlier at St. Albans, when she and Mary had been so happy as they discussed the impending arrival - what would need to be done in the nursery, the clothes that would be made, and Mary's husband's loving if somewhat comically over-attentive behaviour. Everything was possible, and all laid before them.

And now, it was all over.

Out of nowhere and with no warning, Mary had awoken in the middle of the night in pain and bleeding heavily, and no matter what John or her own arriving physician had tried to do, they had been unable to stop it. Within an hour, they had been forced to tell her that her baby was gone.

Mary, understandably, had been devastated, and when she herself had arrived at the Watsons' a day later, it was to a house of grief. For as much as her friend was in mourning for her loss, so too was her husband, his normally upbeat and jovial deportment now hushed and almost anaesthetized, as he grieved quietly on his own, while valiantly directing an attempt to cheer his wife whenever he was with her.

The next week had been spent visiting her pale but recovering friend, staying for a day or two, caring for her when John had to go back to work and in the evenings when he returned and dined downstairs alone, and slipping to him to be a soothing and sympathetic ear when he needed it.

As much as she loathed to take any good from so sad an occurrence, it been quite the distraction from her own troubles. So intent on devoting her time and energy to them, she had been able to put aside her active and anxious thoughts of the consulting detective of Baker Street. So much so, that when Watson had asked if she would mind filling in for him as a companion to their mutual friend on this night, preferring to stay at home with the thankfully improving Mary, she had agreed readily, the implications of what such an outing would mean only striking her rapidly as she had left to go back to her hotel that evening.

Holmes, himself, had been away, but had called upon Watson one evening to offer his condolences in person. The two men had talked briefly before he had departed, though she had not discovered it until his after he had gone, having been companion to Mary in her room that night. She had not dwelled upon it then, but now seated here all her conflicted feelings about him were again to the fore, and as much as she would have liked to forget about them and what she needed to do, she could not. She would tell him...tonight, and resolved herself to it, though it did not make the task any easier.

The pull to him had been almost instantaneous upon seeing him waiting for her on the pavement outside her hotel - a pull that ensnared her senses and threatened to wreck everything. It had taken all she had not to give in to the desire to ignore the misery she had endured and remain at his side - to walk away from her plans…to not stare into those vivid eyes with their gold and green flecks and lose herself completely.

It would be easier, so much easier to do so. What she had to do tonight scared her…no, terrified her to her very core. She must not only take command of her own wavering emotions, but of a situation regarding Sherlock Holmes, a man who could, if he tried, reduce almost anyone to a quivering mass of nerves with a look or word. She had to be strong and confident with no trace of her second guessing herself. Her resolve must be as clear as the logic in her withdrawing from him. She did not want him to see her weakness, or how hard this was for her…even as she left, she did not want him to think her just another foolish, feeble-willed woman.

She had been tossed about on a sea of emotions all this time, and this was, at last, her chance to exert some power over her own fate.

But deep down inside, there was another fear…one she dreaded even more. That she might look up into those eyes that so attracted her, and in them, even momentarily, see pain at her decision to end their friendship so. The thought that she might hurt him with her inability to control her own feelings was like a crushing weight upon her chest. He was so remote and emotionally aloof now, that the idea that she might be responsible for a scar that would further that removal tied her stomach in as tight a knot as it could be.

But walking away without a word, avoiding him at every hand's turn, would definitely achieve that damage and in a far less kind a manner. This way, at least, there was a chance he would do as Mary had suggested, and find merit in her actions, understanding and appreciation of her logic and her control. Even now, the desire that he think well of her consumed her.

Glancing over at the bar, and seeing him pay the bartender, she attempted to clear her mind and focus for now solely on the evening, and when the time came take her opening.

On returning to her side, Holmes proffered the sweet sherry he had obtained for her, and sat with his small snifter of brandy, pulling up a chair to face her across the low gilded coffee table between them. "How is Mary?" he asked without further preamble, voicing what he felt her thoughts still to be, though there was the merest hint of disguised discomfort in his voice at the topic. "The importance of my work has kept me away again these past few days, and Watson is..." He let the sentence hang as to his friend's understandable absence.

His own talk with him had been concise, sympathetic, but reserved - a few words of inquiry and condolence and a firm handshake. It had been a difficult conversation for both of them, but for entirely different reasons, and a measure of guilt resided within Holmes for his controlled nature at these times.

"She is on the mend," Helen replied with a sigh, taking a small sip of her drink. "She is still very upset of course...they both are…but they seem to be taking heart that nothing appears to be wrong with her physically, and are free to try again." She flushed a little at that, and moved on hastily. "I have invited them both to stay at the house if they need to remove themselves from the city, but both seem very keen to get back into the normal schedule of their lives."

"Work is often the best remedy. A routine that keeps the mind occupied," he agreed with a quick nod, both sympathetic yet still vaguely uncomfortable. "Will you give her my best regards when you see her again? With the plans I have, it is doubtful I will be near their home again for at least a while longer."

"Of course," she assured him, his words catching her attention. "And how has your work fared as of late?"

"On the cusp," he replied with some relief. "The case I am working on threatens to unfold before me at last, and that quivering possibility is the reason I fear I shall not be in London for some few days at least after today." He placed his brandy upon the table. "I await word on certain developments, which I expect will come first thing tomorrow, and when received, I shall be striking out immediately for..." he paused and smiled a little, "well, that remains to be seen."

Her eyebrow arched a little. "Well then, I hope you manage to enjoy your night off tonight," she returned with a hint of amusement. "A mystery in a mystery...should be most interesting."

"It has a certain intrigue," he conceded before enquiring, "Something, I hope, has not been the case with your own affairs? I understood from speaking with Watson before his loss that you were keeping yourself to St. Albans. Though he was somewhat vague on the details. Everything is well there, I trust?" He picked up, and swirled his glass of brandy slowly.

She managed to give him a flash of a smile, before taking another sip of her drink, affording her the time to collect her thoughts as he revealed the curiosity to her absence from London that she knew he would. His inquisitive mind would afford no other reaction. She wondered if that moment would be a good time to begin her now well-rehearsed speech. But with the opera just minutes away, she decided it was likely not, and she had hoped to have one last pleasant evening with him before all this came to an end at last. Letting the sherry slip down, she shook her head and lowered her glass. "All is well, Mr. Holmes. I have just been rather busy with affairs at home."

"Yes..." a suggestion of a frown touched his forehead, "precisely as Watson said. Word for word in fact." He drew on his brandy, before gazing over the top of his glass at her again, noting the same distant quality slip into her words, and wondering now if her bearing this evening was attributable to more than just concern for her friend. His eyes upon her became more penetrative, as he straightened in his seat, leaning back…considering.

After a momentary silence, he spoke again. "I was wondering, Miss Thurlow...whether you might consider a suggestion of mine?"

Taking another sip of her sherry, she nodded. "Of course," she agreed with genuine curiosity.

"While Watson and I have been attending concerts and performances such as these for some time now...it appears now that with both Mary and your good self, that our circle of intimates has extended itself somewhat. I had spoken to him some time ago about the benefits of obtaining season tickets. He for himself and Mary...and I for myself. Seeing as it is as often you and I who travel out to these events together, and rather than it merely being a case of you inheriting a ticket meant for Watson, I was wondering whether you too might partake of a season ticket which would make the arranging of our trips together that much easier...and more frequent?" His gaze was level and direct as he spoke, the level of interest he took in her response to what he had to say natural yet quietly intense.

Her initial reaction was surprise, not having expected this offer in the least. The second less obvious one was that of a clenching in her stomach at his intention that the bonds be tightened just as she intended to severe them, manifesting in a flash of nerves was hard to suppress. "That...that is very generous of you, Mr. Holmes," she hedged, only for the bell to sound, followed by the voices of the ushers announcing for all to take their seats.

Finishing his brandy, he offered her his hand. "Shall I take that to mean you will consider it?" he asked of her opaque response. Still a little off balance, Helen nodded, as she slipped her gloved hand into his, wondering if she should perhaps re-examine her decision yet again.

Leaving their glasses, and stopping once or twice along the way to greet and talk briefly with a few of his acquaintances, the orchestra was finishing their tune up as he led her to their seats. Entering a box to the right of the stage, the great crystal chandelier glowed above them, as the great auditorium, second only to La Scala in Milan and The Pergola in Florence, filled rapidly.

Helping to seat her, Holmes handed her the playbill for the evening. "You will no doubt find Melba a marvellous soprano," he predicted. "She is justly celebrated for one so young. From what I understand, there are a great many renowned tenors and baritones lined up to play with her and the Royal Opera Company." Taking his own place on the matching gilded plush scarlet seat beside her, his eyes turned to the curtained stage as he continued to talk. "A season ticket does seem the way to go. It would be gratifying to know that all my friends would be so similarly well equipped to join me."

Glancing down at her playbill, she felt her stomach roil with each word. He could not possibly know how much it meant to her to have him think so highly of her, and yet...the word friend just lay there like a rapidly sinking stone, leading her inexorably back to her plan which now seemed more urgent than ever under his new intentions. "I am looking forward to hearing her..." she began quietly, only to have the rest of her words again dry up in her throat.

His eyes moved back to her once more, for he could not help but notice that she had again failed to answer the salient point of his questioning. "Miss Thurlow," he leaned forward slightly, as the crowd below, around, and above hushed, "be assured, if you do not wish to consider the ticket at this time, you have only to say. I place no obligation on you at all."

She bit her lip. He knew something was wrong, he was pressing her in his way to discover what, and silently and gently she cursed him for it. For hastening the end. She had to tell him. It was only fair. So, with an inward sigh, she turned to face him. "Mr. Holmes, I would be most glad certainly to attend the opera with you, for you know I enjoy our outings, however..." Her words were cut off with the sudden dimming of the lights and swell of the orchestra as the opening overture began.

Even as the curtain drew back and the setting of Lammermoor castle in Scotland in the Sixteenth Century was revealed, setting up the tale of violence, feud, illicit love, and tragedy that was to come, an initially uncomfortable silence settled over the box, both occupants aware of something left yet unsaid.

They had just begun to settle into the libretto, however, and Holmes was about to point out to her a slight flaw in the recitative, when there was a dull knock on their box door. Jolted out of her intense concentration of the drama on stage, Helen turned to her companion with a slightly perplexed and questioning look. "Are you expecting someone, Mr. Holmes?" she enquired lowly.

"No." He shook his head, speaking quietly as he stood. "Not at all."

On opening the door, he was faced with an apologetic usher. "Your pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he enquired, and as the detective nodded, was promptly handed a message. "For you, sir."

Taking the arrival with a surprised expression, Holmes tipped the man, and left his foot in the door to hold it a little ajar so as to utilise the light from outside, as he opened the communication.

"Is everything all right?" Helen asked, rising to her feet, and crossing over to him, an anxious look on her face that perhaps Mary had worsened.

"Yes..." he assured her absently with a nod, before glancing up. "There is nothing to worry about on that score." His brow creased at the words facing him. "However, I'm sorry to say I must depart at once." Slipping the note into his coat, he regarded her briskly. "There is a carriage awaiting me downstairs, and I do not have time to see you home." He indicated the chair she had just left. "Please sit, and watch the rest of the performance."

She stared at him; stunned by the sudden turn of events, as for the second time in a little over a month, she was faced with abandonment at a public event. "You...now?" she stumbled dumbly. "But...I wanted to…I…" And again the awful feeling of hopelessness descended once more into the pit of her stomach. "Of course," she said, her tone resigned, and with a shake of her head, though her back stiffened slightly, gazed at him with an expression that betrayed nothing. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," she finished strongly, holding out her hand.

Taking her hand quickly, forgetting to bow over it, his other hand searching for his coat check ticket in his waistcoat, he nodded, his mind already turning to events outside their box. "Goodnight, Miss Thurlow. We shall reschedule, of course." And with a quick bow over her hand, he turned on his heel and slipped out, closing the door behind him and leaving her in barely relieved darkness.

She turned, and almost slumped against the wall - abandoned once more, her carefully thought out speech never said, and the strenuous farewell she had uttered, the closest she had come to informing him of her intentions. Aware that their movements and his exit had caused a mild disturbance, she resumed her seat with all the appearance of a woman listening avidly to the arias and canzone on stage, though inside her mind was still reeling.

He was gone, and though she had resigned herself to the idea that when the time came to say goodbye to him this evening it would be with that note of finality, the loss of him now was palpable. She had the distinct impression that she must be experiencing a most similar feeling to someone who has lost a limb - the ache of it was still there, though she knew the part itself would never return.

As she sat, she found her misery mirrored in that of Nellie Melba's Lucia…but unlike the increasingly bewildered stage heroine, flecks of annoyance at her own situation began to creep into her thoughts. People who had seen and heard his departure were watching her as she now sat alone, and she felt a flush of embarrassment while they regarded her with a kind of curious pity, and made assumptions about what had happened that would lead to his abandoning her that way.

She was alone, as she had been throughout this entire one sided affair, and the casualness with which he had left her again, this time in full view of others, drove home once and for all the idea that she would always have been second best to his work. That nothing mattered to him quite so much as that. But though she knew it was important, and she did not begrudge his leaving, she only wanted…a little more consideration.

Her brow creased a little as she thought on it all, and it struck her as suddenly absurd that she should be worried that she might hurt him. That he truly cared only for his work never seemed more obvious to her, and her annoyance flared once more. How _could_ she hurt him? John, not he himself, had written her that note of apology when they _both_ had left on a case. And now here, he had hardly even given a second thought to her when he left.

He'd left smartly, blithely, and it ached and irked all the worse at the knowledge that he still expected her to reschedule. But she never would. What was the point of telling him why she was drawing away when, continuously caught up in his work as he was, it was doubtful to her now that would he even miss her presence beyond a mild disappointment at not having a companion for these events. The time had come. Explanation or no, it was time for her to go...to walk away.

As the lights rose again, and the intermission began, she rose silently to her feet, wanting nothing more than to leave and end her miserable night. Closing her eyes, and inhaling quietly, she steeled herself, just as surely as he must do, and keeping any hint of tears at bay, she closed off her heart, drawing on her annoyance just a little to fuel her determination and her dignity so that she would not be a spectacle of any kind.

Moving swiftly towards the carpeted steps, and not paying much heed to those around her, she began to descend, pulling out her coat check ticket, so as to be ready to cross the foyer to retrieve her cape and make a dignified exit.

"I say!" a familiar booming voice carried up the stairs to her. "Sarah! Look who it is!" At the bottom of the flight, the tow blond head of Sir Roger Howley looked up towards her with a wide smile. "Helen, dear girl! Fancy meeting you here!" he greeted her, as he made his way up towards her to escort her the rest of the way down on seeing her alone, glancing behind him as he did. "Here with someone?"

She blinked up at the face of her cousin's husband as he towered above her, before relaxing just a little, and giving him a tiny smile. "I...I was, but he had to leave. I was just on my way to get my cape," she replied.

"Leave?" Roger repeated, leading her downstairs. "Leave..._alone_? Sarah!" he boomed again, trying to attract her attention from the small group she was attached to in conversation. "Sarah, some ill mannered reprobate has left Helen here by herself, expecting her to make her own way home!"

Repressing an inward groan, Helen shook her head quickly as her cousin turned, and moved swiftly over to them. "Honestly, it is nothing to concern yourselves with. There are cabs outside, and I was somewhat weary at any rate," she assured them, simply desiring to be away from public in general.

"Helen, how can we not be concerned! We are family, and you have been left here alone and unescorted. It simply won't do," Sarah returned, watching her closely with a carefully managed worried look on her face.

"Indeed not," her husband agreed. "Height of bad manners leaving you alone, and we'll not compound it by letting you travel unescorted. You must come with us, and watch the rest in our box!"

Helen's eyes widened. "Oh no, Roger...thank you, but I really do just wish to get home. It has been a busy week, and I have to visit a sick friend tomorrow. Honestly, I would just rather get a cab."

"Ah..." a secondary male voice, tenor in tone and with a slight tut to follow, said from behind Roger, "that is a grave disappointment, I must admit."

Around the giant fair-haired peer stepped a slighter man. He was tall, over six feet in height, clad in the red and gold dress uniform of a Captain in the Cavalry, and in possession of a mane of dark brown hair that he wore slightly long and with trim sideburns in the style that some mounted officers did as an homage to older heroes. And underneath that thick head of hair was a tanned and decidedly handsome face, bearing a small smile which set off his fine features to great effect. But more noticeable still, were the deep, warm, blue eyes that danced a little in the chandelier light above them, eyes that were focused now on Helen as he stopped where he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, and his smile widening a little more, before he glanced up at Roger expectantly.

"Ah...yes..." Roger nodded. "Helen...this is an old school friend of mine from Rugby. William Edwards...Captain William Edwards soon to be Major, I might add...newly returned from India in service to the 16th Queens Royal Lancers…or the _Scarlets_ as you can tell from his uniform," he continued with a chuckle. "Captain Edwards, my wife's cousin...Miss Helen Thurlow," he introduced.

The Captain extended a white gloved hand, and bowed a little. His eyes, however, never left her face as he waited for her hand in return. "A very great pleasure, Miss Thurlow," he said sincerely.

It was not his looks that first struck Helen, for indeed she had seen many a handsome man as of late at social events and outings, but rather his eyes...they were startlingly direct, nearly impudently so, but completely and utterly sincere and almost...innocent. It was an odd mix for a man that looked from her estimation to be about thirty.

Despite her gloomy mood, he also seemed to possess a smile that rather irritatingly one could not help but return, and in so doing, she took his hand and inclined her head. "How do you do, Captain Edwards," she greeted him. "I believe I have heard talk of you from Sarah and Roger...albeit briefly, regarding the dinner they planned for your return."

"Then I am afraid you have me at the slightest of advantages," he returned, bowing over her hand, "for I have yet to hear of you. Something I shall have to take Roger and your fair cousin to task over." He gave them a light-hearted reproving glance. "For how they could have failed to mention you, I fail to understand."

"Ah..." said Roger, his eyes moving to his wife, as a glimmer of a smile played around his lips at his friend's reaction to her cousin. "Well...yes, we had planned to invite Helen to the garden luncheon next week. I'm sure you would have met there."

"Yes," Sarah agreed. "I was going to write to you in the morning. How fortuitous it is to see you here, instead."

Helen's eyes narrowed just a little at the exchange, smelling the almost inevitable scent of the matchmaker at work. And it seemed she was not, for once, the only one so taken, as the blue eyes of William Edwards moved to his friends, an eyebrow arching slightly in the act of informing them that he knew exactly what they were up to, before he looked back at Helen and to her surprise surreptitiously tossed his eyes heavenwards in an act of exasperation and confederation with her at their actions.

Her pithy reply to her cousin died on her lips, which were now twitching upwards in an attempt to rein in an increasingly hard to repress smile. "Well," she conceded, after a moment, "I am free on Wednesday...for lunch." She stressed the last two words for the couple's benefit.

"Lunch is an excellent meal," Captain Edwards agreed, his own smile growing at her acceptance, and his tone grew exceedingly relaxed as he looked around at them all. "Quite possibly my favourite...especially here in England," he added, turning his gaze back to Helen. "And do you know why?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, her face doing a passable imitation of hiding an enjoyment she was sure she should not feeling in the circumstances, and shook her head. "No, Captain Edwards...why?"

"It's all served up in wonderfully, clear, perfectly understandable English." He sighed, and held up his programme for the opera with an expression of a man completely lost.

Her eyes moved from him to his programme and back again. "I see...well, Italian is not my best language either," she consoled him. "I'm afraid I am bound to either English or French." She paused for a moment. "Are you not enjoying the opera?"

Roger turned his gaze to his friend. "I fail to see why you shouldn't be, William! After all before it started, Sarah and I went through the entire libretto with you!"

"No, Roger..." William replied genially. "You and Sarah went through the libretto...you left me behind blundering around at the overture unable to tell my Edgardo from my Enrico..." His brow furrowed a moment. "Or was it Arturo from my Raimondo...I forget." He sighed again, though his eyes never ceased to lose their sparkle as he regarded Helen. "I'm afraid my Italian is utterly non existent. I enjoy the music greatly, Miss Thurlow...but I truly have no idea what is going on, and Roger and Sarah are entirely too advanced in their knowledge to be able to drop back to explain it all to an operatic novice like myself. Their technical terms make advanced military tactics seem like mere child's play."

"You should have said!" Roger huffed. "I would have been only too glad to go through it with you again, old man!"

The look that William gave him was one of pure pain, and he raised his hand in mock horror. "No, Roger...I beg of you."

Helen raised a hand to her mouth to hide her wide grin at his playful antics, the young Captain's cheerful good humour a wave of welcome relief that she had hardly known that she craved after the turbulent events in her life as of late. "Oh dear..." she chimed in with a chuckle. "Well...it is not too complicated, Captain Edwards. If you forgo the musical terms the story itself is rather easily followed, especially if you have read Sir Walter Scott's original novel on which this drama is based."

Turning his head back to Helen, he gazed at her like a man out at sea who had just caught sight of a raft with sail and full provisions. "Miss Thurlow," he began, drawing himself up, "I realise we have only just been introduced...but I would deem it a great boon...nay, a veritable act of heroism...if you would consider, perhaps...remaining to guide me through the rest of this evening's theatrical intricacies?" His blue eyes seemed almost puppyish, as he added nobly, "I would, of course, return the favour by freeing you of any obligation to any lunch my friends insist you attend in order to make my acquaintance. Even one on a Wednesday?" His lips tugged slightly upwards at his last words.

Sobering a little, she glanced down at her coat check ticket still grasped in her hand, and bit her lip. A twinge of sadness ran through her, before she pushed it back with that little flare of annoyance, and reminded herself that she had made a decision regarding her heart and future, and now seemed just as good a time as any to enact that resolution.

Pushing the ticket back into her purse, she raised her eyes back to the handsome and charming man in front of her and smiled. "How can I refuse such an offer?" she replied.

Straightening, the young officer looked to her relatives and back to her, his smile exceedingly pleased as he offered her his arm to lead her back upstairs. "I really have no idea, Miss Thurlow, and am remarkably glad you don't either." His eyes twinkled, as her hand slipped to his arm, and together, they moved off towards the stairs, a decidedly smug Roger and Sarah in their wake.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Thank you again to all that have read and/or reviewed! We love hearing from everyone, and please be assured your comments (and spelling corrections) are taken to heart. It always kinda bums us that we aren't able to just hit a button and reply to each person individually…but alas…no such feature here.**_

_**Okay, on the grammar/spelling – hope you noticed that some errors have been fixed (well, all the ones we could and our trusty editor at another archive we post at could find). Hopefully, that makes reading easier, and please, keep checking on those! Often I miss a few (as does my co-writer) and if you notice, we correct it within 72 hours. This is the lag time at the other archive, so we don't get those corrections back till most of you all have seen it! **_

_**Um…got rather amused at the comment about "Poor Helen! Do something!" Um…that's kinda the point…she is poor Helen. Alas, there will be no heroic measures here.**_

_**Thrilled people are liking the Duchess still (she's a right hoot, isn't she!), and are empathising and loving Miss Thurlow. Just shows we are doing our job right. Hooray!**_

_**And yes, Baskerville Beauty, we have both now read (devoured really) the HBP…and are reeling in shock and more plot bunnies than you can shake a stick at! Sigh…like we don't have enough to do! **_**Headesk**

_**Well, on a final note…just an epilogue to go folks! This chapter was originally to be split into two, but found it worked better as one. So…now you know where Helen stands…next up…Holmes! And hopefully, all questions will be answered…and a few new ones raised. **_**Waggles eyebrows**

_**Hugs to all! And thank you again! And relax…this is not the last you will be hearing from us. - Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	14. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

_25th September, 1889_

"Watson," Holmes addressed his friend as he wound his timepiece to his satisfaction, "is your old leg wound causing you grief?" The partially distracted question came as the two friends, out on an early evening constitutional following Watson's dropping by Baker Street for a late lunch, walked together down Marylebone Road, intending to turn up by York Gate for Regents Park.

The doctor sighed a little, glancing down at the leg that carried his old bullet wound from Afghanistan, and which had been niggling at him all day, albeit not to the degree he would have thought noticeable, but then his colleague always had a way of noticing things others missed. "Yes...I think we shall have rain soon. It always twinges a bit a day or so before hand," he replied with a nod.

"I thought as much." Holmes slipped his watch back to his pocket, and glanced up at the darkening blue of the clear twilight sky on a fine balmy evening. "The scent of it is in the air. And not before time too. This summer has been exceedingly hot and dry. London has not profited by it. Heat waves often bring out criminal excesses. The lethargy and desire only to be cool makes the general populace careless, and the less scrupulous can thrive. And that is without taking into account the excessive alcohol consumption such weather can bring, and its ripple effects. Yes, all in all not before time."

"Well, we're into autumn now, old man, though I dare say I shall prefer the mild weather a bit longer to the bitter cold," the older man returned, before glancing down the street, and spotting the familiar shop that was the target of an errand he was meaning to run and the reason they had walked in this direction.

Passing Madame Tussauds, busier now then ever after moving there five years previously from its original site in the Bazaar in Baker Street, they closed on the superbly stocked tobacconists Rosenbaum's, which had just been acquired by Carlin's of Oxford Street but remained under the management of the dignified and immensely knowledgeable Mr. Rosenbaum.

On the doctor's lead, they crossed the road in the wake of the Omnibus's passing. The open door of Rosenbaum's allowed the rich scent of tobacco to filter into the evening air, and both men happily stopped to look at the items on display in the front bay window before Watson glanced quickly over at his companion. "Holmes, I'll just be a moment...stock up the home supplies, as I told you..."

"Of course..." his friend replied, happy to indulge a fellow enthusiast's tastes.

"Is there anything you want?"

"No thank you," said the detective, holding up a hand. "However...I recommend the new Will's Virginia Blend. Quite your style."

As an intrigued Watson disappeared into the shop, Holmes returned to his perusal of the shop front, admiring the sleek Calabash Rustique and Belgique Smooth pipes displayed amongst the temptingly overflowing containers of finest tobacco, cigars, and cigarettes. The selection of matured, black shag tobacco began to woo him to the idea that perhaps an extra ounce or two of that and some red flake might not go amiss for the lengthening evenings ahead. Autumn was, as Watson had quite rightly said, here, and colder, darker nights beckoned.

Raising his head, he peered in through the window to see Watson in conversation with the dapper Mr. Rosenbaum, who was in the process of showing him a bewildering display of new American and Turkish products that had the good doctor quite distracted by choice. A small smile of amusement touching his lips, and pleased by his friend's presence this evening, as well as his return to a happier demeanour following the poignant death of his unborn child, Holmes made a move to join him.

As he did, however, a movement in one reflected pane of the convex glass window caught his eye, causing him to pause. The familiar figure mirrored there, her graceful step as she traversed the pavement on the far side of the street, heading in the opposite direction to that he and Watson intended, instantly recognisable to him after a year of her acquaintance, was one he had not seen for some weeks now.

Not since he had to hastily abandon her in the midst of that fine performance of Lucia di Lammermoor to pursue an urgent case. An action he regretted. On reflection, he knew, of course, that he should have least had the courtesy to put her in a cab, but such details when faced with the immediacies of his work slipped his mind on occasion. As a case in point…even before Watson had berated him for his second such inattention to Helen Thurlow, he had meant to write and offer his apologies to her, but had forgotten or rather rescheduled it, his work offering him new several opportunities at once.

Subsequently, he had decided that, after so long a period had elapsed, it would be better to apologise in person when next they met. However, his intentions to contact her had been halted by Watson, who informed him that Miss Thurlow's commitments were keeping her at home for the time being, and that even his meetings with her had been postponed for a short time.

Despite enquiries as to her health and that of her family, Holmes had ascertained little further information about her absence from his friend, who soon showed a marked reluctance to be pressed on the subject, changing it rather too speedily, and displaying all the hallmarks of a man engaged in obfuscation.

The reason for that obfuscation was now patently clear.

The traffic that passed between Holmes and the subject of his thoughts kept her oblivious to his presence and his observation of her. Her hat was new, or at least new in that he had not seen it on her before, its deep blue with pale blue flowers complimenting her auburn hair curled beneath it, and she appeared considerably less drawn and tired than last he had seen her. Other than that, she looked in every way the same as she had always had.

Save one.

The soldier with whom she walked, and around whose arm her hand was gently curled.

His eyes moved from her to better observe this man. He was about thirty or thirty-one. A Captain from what he could discern of his officer's braid, for his insignia was too small and distant to make out, but his bearing was unmistakeably that of a cavalry officer; the extra swagger and tell tale signs in the walk of a man used to life on horseback self evident to him. Taking that to be the case, the officer's uniform tunic's colour told him that he was from the 16th Lancers - a prestigious regiment with a proud history and a man, from the number of ribbons on his chest, who had both seen action and had proved himself.

Tall, six foot two inches perhaps, dark, of handsome aspect, broad shouldered, slender but solidly built, his hair unusually flowing and long, his sideburns unique for a man his age, he smiled, what seemed to Holmes, a great deal and talked even more, and his inclination towards leaning towards his companion was sufficient indication of both his enjoyment of her presence and a growing comfort in its being there. It was not the first time they had strolled thusly.

No. His eyes returned to her face, and noted the happy smile and barely restrained laughter there as she glanced up at her jovial companion. No. Not the first time...nor the second.

A relative? No. She had said often enough there were none she liked well enough to be close to. And the expression on his face when his eyes found hers and the demure dip of her head at some comment or other spoke clearly of intent and flirtation. The permitted intimacy was clear in its silent declaration to him - he was calling upon her. They were courting.

Placing his cane in front of him, he leaned on it, watching them as they moved on.

And so it had happened.

He had long suspected it would only be a matter of time. It was well within the range of achievable mathematical probability that sooner or later a zealous friend or relative would introduce her to a man who was not dull, nor avaricious, and who would be charming enough to catch his dear friend's attention. His eyes turned down to the pavement for a moment and then up at her gradually retreating form. And she was a dear friend…had become so.

She was far too charming, bright, and kind to be alone in this world, and like every woman, desired not to be. She was not the epitome of her gender in any way, and yet, as he viewed it, the sum of her parts gave her a kind of uniqueness that like Mary Watson subtly made her stand out from her fellows, and also like his friend's wife, she had flowered under the adversity and challenge. Such women did not by their nature turn inwards, and men around them seldom let them.

His hands clasped the top of his cane tightly, and relaxed accordingly; his only movement as he stood statue still outside the shop. He had thought, he had to admit, that on one or two occasions, her thoughts in that regard might be turning to him, but such brief thoughts were common between men and women who had a friendly connection and fleeting ideas that did no harm. Looking down again, he contemplated that before smiling a little to himself - she was too aware and intelligent a woman to ever let it go beyond that, and would seek out someone far better suited to her needs than he…as this new development proved to him.

Although… His gaze moved to the smart, scarlet uniformed back. While he was full sure this would come to pass, he was surprised at her apparent choice. A soldier was not whom he had envisaged in that little time he had afforded thought on the subject. Rather an entrepreneurial business man or a man of the arts, either one clever, vibrant, with a wide breath of knowledge, an open mind, and respectful but warm heart. Soldiers, he had found in his experience, seldom fell into that category.

The distant laugh of the officer under scrutiny crept to his ears as they stopped by Tussauds to take in the advertisements, and Holmes quirked an eyebrow on being able to hear his amusement, even vaguely, at this distance across a busy London avenue. _Vibrant_, at least, he certainly seemed to be, the detective noted, the fingers of one hand thrumming soberly against the others on his cane.

In any event, he straightened, slipping his cane under his arm. Whatever the merits of her choice, she had succumbed as he knew she must, and he now knew the precise reason for her behaviour at the Opera that night...her distant air, her evasion of his question...her desire to tell him something she never had the chance to, and why he had heard nothing since. She had obviously met this man, and was trying to find a way to tell him she could no longer accompany him as she once had.

That she had never had the chance was hardly her fault, and the manner of his departure meant that by all rights he should have been the one to approach her afterwards as the wrong doer. But he never had, so her opportunity had been removed.

Perhaps it was just as well. He was sure she would have found it difficult to say, and his visage softened a little on the remembrance of how flustered she would sometimes get around him on the subject of personal issues, even though invariably, she would always get her point across quite well on that and any other subject. He would miss that.

He would miss…

"Holmes? Is everything all right?" came the familiar voice next to him, as Watson regarded his friend's face curiously at the immersed expression he saw there. "Something the matter, my dear chap?"

Looking around at the man now by his side, the detective pondered on whether his friend had known and kept this from him, but for the moment, shook his head. "No matter," he replied, as the... couple... moved on, and inhaling deeply and with a smile, he voiced in a philosophically light hearted manner, "Just stray ruminations. This time upon how women always fulfil what one of expects of them. No matter how well suited to a life of amiable friendship they appear...inevitably their nature takes them towards the life of arrant romance. They are compelled to it like a salmon is upstream."

Arching an eyebrow at his friend, the doctor gave him a bemused look. "I see..." he returned, when quite the contrary was the case, wondering what had occurred between the recommendation of Will's Virginia Blend cigarettes and the purchasing of them to bring on thoughts such as those, but knowing better than to even bother to attempt to debate such a subject with his friend. "Yes, well...never mind. Shall we continue?"

"Of course! Of course!" Holmes pronounced with a nod, pointing his cane in the direction of York Gate, and casting a smile at the other man. "By all means, let us, you and I, continue on as we have been doing."

Tucking his neatly wrapped parcel under his arm, the doctor did so, turning and moving to cross the street, while by his side, as they waited for the carriages to pass, the detective's eyes drifted back to his left and the last glimpse of auburn hair by that scarlet tunicked shoulder.

For a moment, the composed brow creased, the hawkish eyes below flickering at the sight once more of intertwined arms and closely spoken happy words, as the faint sound of a waltz drifted down on a breeze from somewhere undefined. When they disappeared amongst the others on the street, Holmes shook himself slightly, shifting his eyes from the empty spot on the far side of the street to that occupied by his stalwart colleague with him, and with a step, moved after him and back to their prior routine.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Thank you to all who have read, reviewed, and stuck with us through this tale. We heartily enjoyed both writing it and bringing it to you, and have appreciated everyone's thoughts and comments...and thank you for bearing with us with our much necessary vagueness. Now…it is over…or is it?**_

_**That said, I would like to direct your attention to this link (due to this not showing up...grrrr...go to our Author page here and I'll put the link up there...cool?)…where perhaps you will find an answer to that question…let the games…begin! - Aeryn (of aerynfire)  
**_

_**  
**_


End file.
